Red Light, Green Light
by orchidvines
Summary: You're a little screwed up. No, seriously. Everything you meddle in just spontaneously combusts. Kind of like the Midas Touch, but just, you know, less about gold and more about crap. Emma, Modern Day.
1. Prologue

_Curtains clap and thrown open window  
Eyes are watching, neon lights  
But she's always avoiding falling in love  
Yes, it's due to a life of a private affair_

"Private Affair" by The Virgins

**Red Light, Green Light**: _Prologue_

There was a rustle of fabric and a girlish squeal, and Jack Knightley could do nothing but gawk as Emma Woodhouse burst into his office on a crisp Tuesday afternoon and waved an elegant piece of paper in front of his face with almost sadistic delight.

Jack's mortified secretary poked her head in the doorway, sputtering some form of an apology. "I'm sorry, sir. She said she was your sister! Stormed right in! I even mentioned the _conference call_—"

"That's okay, Louise. This is Tom Woodhouse's daughter. And it's his office. I have no power. She is the bane of my existence."

Emma was too busy gloating, a mega watt smile stamped on her pretty face as she paraded the frilly, pink slip of paper. "See that? See _that_, Jack? It's a _wedding_ invitation. As in, bells ringing, tiered cake. Oh, you want to do me a favor and read the opening line? Come on. Be a doll. _Do it_."

Jack glared up at her and snatched the piece of paper from her hand, muttering under his breath as he read: "Oliver Weston and Taylor Lau. Hyatt. Sunday, July 12th, 2009." He counted backwards from five and fixed the girl in front of him with the most contemptuous stare he could muster.

"Yes," she purred, inspecting an auburn tendril absently. "Marriage. _Marriage_, Knightley."

"Mazel Tov," Jack replied dryly. "This is why you interrupt me? Because your girlfriend is getting hitched? I'm very busy, Emma; some of us have _real_ jobs."

She narrowed her gray eyes at him and snatched the invitation back, not amused in the slightest. "First of all, suck it up. It's Friday afternoon, and you usually leave Daddy's office by this time. _Second_ of all, you're forgetting our bet. Convenient."

Jack grinned at her and feigned stupid, "Oh man, did I miss _American Idol_ again this week? Who's eliminated?"

"It was twenty _dollars_, Jack," Emma insisted, pivoting her hands on her hips. "Six months ago, you bet me twenty dollars that I couldn't get them engaged. It was just after Ethan Perry's party, and you were being a smug asshole." She paused, statuesque and thoughtful, "Much like now, actually. Chop, chop."

He rolled his eyes and sighed, fishing his wallet out of his pant pocket. As he removed a bill and slid it across the table, his hand came over hers. She looked up at him skeptically.

"How do you feel now that you've just betted and _gained_ from making a game out of a best friend's happiness?" Jack asked politely, a smile tugging at a corner of his mouth. _Bank on the guilt trip and she might leave you alone_.

"I feel like I should find a new best friend who might _succeed_ at playing the morality card," she answered simply, slipping the bill from under his hand. "Besides, you and I both know this is just payback for that cab fare I helped you out with last week. If anybody's really guilty of betting on Taylor's happiness, it's you. You wanted Oliver to fail."

"For God's sake, Emma, I did not," Jack laughed, rising from his seat. He absently filled his messenger bag with paper work and powered off his Mac. "I love Taylor like a sister; every happiness to them both. It was _you_ that had to be stopped. You would play millionaire matchmaker to the world if only you could. _Yeah_, it entertains you, but it's going to get you into trouble some day."

"Oh, so it's _my_ happiness you're out to squash."

"Exactly." He laid a hand on her shoulder for comfort, "If you really like matching, I'd suggest interior decorating. Shove some throw pillows around. Or dog breeding, if you want to take it up a notch."

"You're an ass." Emma took up the invitation again, "This is _proof_ that I'm good. Honestly, maybe it's just a skill acquired with age. Some people are born to do certain things."

"You're definitely born to be modest," Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked quickly at his watch and then turned to her curiously, watching as she delicately rifled through the business card stack on his desk. "Why are you really here?"

She turned around and beamed, her eyes lighting up. For once, Jack noticed that Emma was dressed for their Friday dinner in worn jeans, a green zip up and flip flops. She rarely dressed so casually unless he insisted on it and _this_ had been insisted upon since they had started the tradition of having dinner together the first Friday of each month. It had been declared as a part of their "Biffle Pact" (as she enthusiastically dubbed it) last year when he first started at Columbia and began his internship at her father's law firm; something to help them keep in touch when life, as it always did, became too saturated with the little things.

Biffle Friday had three distinct rules:

#1: Sushi, Chinese, or pizza. Anything with Chez in the title, or even the suggestion of penguin coats was booted out the door.  
#2: A bad rental from Blockbuster would follow, but it was understandably optional given the nature of the Saturday after.  
#3: Jeans and sweats were mandatory.

Emma had protested, and Jack had replied accordingly:

"_You don't have to dress up for me. I saw you eat Play-Doh and shit your pants, remember? We go way back."_

"_Please don't ever mention that again. And don't flatter yourself, it's never for _you_, Jack."_

Still, she got over it.

Jack rubbed his mouth to conceal a smile at the memory, and Emma looked at him skeptically, brushing her red hair out of her eyes.

"It's Biffle Friday," she pulled a lip quiver. "My turn to pay, and my choice. Sushi again."

"Ah."

"_Ah_." Emma looked mildly disappointed, folding her arms across her chest, "You forgot."

At that, Jack raised a finger and dug out a pair of chop sticks from the front pocket of his bag, grinning as he handed them to her. Emma held one up cautiously as the other fell to the floor.

"From last month?" she asked. "Osaka on 57th?"

"Yep."

"That's so sweet," Emma smiled affectionately. "And disgusting at the same time. I'm trashing these and then we're going."

* * *

**Author's Note**: I love _Emma_. And biffles. I also stress write. Did I ever mention? Oh, well. This prologue might be stuck in limbo for about a month (at least until AP tests blow over). Fair warning here. But it's been cooking for awhile and I wanted to give it some fresh air. Fresh air meaning something besides my Desktop. Hope you enjoy!


	2. The Go To Kid

**Red Light, Green Light**_  
_Chapter Two:_ The Go-To Kid_

You know Emma Lee Woodhouse.

Or else, you think you do. That's the thing about standing from the outside looking in. All the pieces of the puzzle seem to indicate one image while completely obscuring the other. And what is it that people usually tally after first acquaintance? Her pretty looks. The expensive taste. The child of a widowed, almost criminally successful divorce attorney. The stellar grades and secured trust fund. The convertible Lexus at age sixteen. The glimmer of an ivy league school in the distance. The stifling, nearly unbearable self confidence.

_Brat_.

Emma knew the title too well. It had latched itself onto her ankle and followed her up through high school.

Maybe from Jack Knightley's doing, but still. At least _he _knew that, deep down, she had a heart of gold. Whether he felt like expressing this knowledge or not was an entirely different story.

"I remember what you did," Emma sighed, sliding into a corner booth. "_You _were the one who started that rumor about me freshman year. How my dad owned a plantation in South Carolina and how I was filthy rich and how my family used to have _slaves _before the Civil War." She glared at Jack, tight lipped, and laid her menu down flat between them.

"That was definitely Kevin Foster who started that rumor. And you're only angry because I didn't exactly deny what he said," Jack paused and glanced up at her. "You know, even though I sat next to him in US Gov that entire year."

"You encouraged it," Emma scowled, crossing her arms. "I was _new _to Hartfield, Jack. It was before I met Taylor, and you were my only friend in New York after we moved. You couldn't even stick up for me. For two weeks, everybody's favorite running gag in school was that I was a racist."

Jack smiled appreciatively, "I forgot how funny that was."

"I hate you. You're an awful friend," she decided, drumming her knuckles against the table.

"Bullshit," Jack laughed. "_Who _gave you a ride to school every morning? Who told people how wrong they were when they labeled you as a snob? Who led you to the edible food in the cafeteria? _Me_. Oh, and let's not forget that creepy, potential stalker incident with Tyler Portmouth. Come on now."

Emma grimaced, hating that he was right. Excluding the occasional asshole move, Jack had protected her through the better years.

They had grown up together as neighbors in a suburb of Washington, side by side through grade school, yanking braids and kicking shins and having competitions on who could jump farthest from the swings. Well, until Jack skidded onto asphalt at age nine and got himself six stitches across the forehead; swings were prematurely abandoned. Too much blood. But they were inseparable. When two kids go so far as to have spit handshakes, you know something is special. Sacrificed hygiene must mean true love.

Of course, Jack had been the leader, always the one to watch both their backs. He was the child who would note that it was almost dark and time to return home, the one to insist that Emma take the time to put her loose change back in her pocket before she lost it, or tie her other shoe before she tripped. Emma ignored him the majority of the time, but even so. There was a struggling leadership established.

Three years later, Emma and Jack experienced a long, halting pause. His father had gotten a promotion in an advertising agency and he moved Jack and his half brother, Jonathan, to New York City. Time rattled on. And then two more years had gone by and the Woodhouses had taken a devastating blow when Emma's mother, Molly, had passed away. It had shaken up the family in the worst possible time. Emma's older sister, Isabella, had just started her first year at Georgetown, and the family was left feeling splintered and aimless.

Tom Woodhouse had been persuaded in a time of grief to do what was best for his family; turn over a new leaf. Who did the persuading? An old dear friend and neighbor, David Knightley. David had been living in Donwell, a suburb of New York for five years then, Jack at Hartfield High. Jonathan had returned to Washington to start at Georgetown. With Izzy. Coincidence? Time would tell. The phone bill over the last five years had taken a beating.

But still, David had suggested a change of scenery. In Fall 2004, Tom and Emma moved to New York City and she was reunited with Jack after all this time. And you know that discomfort that crackles in the air after meeting up with a childhood friend in your awkward teenage years and finding out that you have nothing in common anymore except braces and a strong hatred of Algebra II? That never happened with Jack and Emma. They were almost nauseatingly close again. Minus the spit handshakes.

Emma smiled into her teacup, wondering if he even remembered that. It was hard to say.

_Probably not_, she thought, watching as he frowned into his menu, his green eyes narrowed in concentration. _Like he's solving quantum physics or something_. Emma rolled her eyes. Knowing Jack, he would scour the Entrée list for twenty minutes, determined to pick out something he had never tried. In the end though, he would choose a California roll. Always.

"I don't know what to have," he complained.

"You're going to end up picking the number five meal," Emma said smugly.

A scowl, "No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are."

"You can't tell me what to do. I'm feeling Unagi Kaba."

"Jack, that's skewered _eel_. Pick five."

"_No_."

"Do it."

"What about shrimp tempura?"

"Number _five_."

"Okay."

Half an hour later, Jack drove Emma home; he stopped by for a few minutes to catch up with her father. They expected Tom to be secure in his study with his reading glasses at the edge of his nose, papers and briefs scattered in impossible directions, a cup of cold coffee teetering at the edge of the desk. As soon as Jack turned the key in the lock and entered, laughter could be heard from the living room. Emma raised her eyebrows, removing her shoes.

"Is that crying?" Jack asked.

"I think he's _laughing_," Emma answered incredulously. "Doesn't he have a deadline Monday morning?"

"Just some loose ends with the Wallace-McKenzie case," Jack responded hesitantly. The unspoken _but _hung in the air. As in, _but your father is an anxiety driven workaholic who makes a field day out of the tiniest of chores, so it doesn't really matter. _Emma half smiled and led him down the hall, past the kitchen and into the living room. Then she dropped her purse, slapped her hands over her cheeks and screamed for a solid three seconds. _Before _leaping over the couch and engulfing Taylor Lau in a tackle hug to end all tackle hugs. Tom looked alarmed, disturbed at the noise.

"I'm 92% sure you just squished my liver, _oww_," Taylor laughed, pulling back with a wince. Emma squealed and hugged her again, and the girls giggled. They hadn't seen each other in months. Not necessarily because they lived far away (actually, only twenty minutes); but Taylor had started at the family business, and Emma was wrapped up in college jitters and of course, that big looming engagement to Oliver Weston had occurred. Sometimes it takes much more than distance to separate people. Emma had missed her more than she was willing to admit.

"And now I'm deaf," Jack sighed, none too grateful for the power of his friend's vocal chords. Tom grinned at him and clapped a hand on the younger man's shoulder a little too enthusiastically. Jack smiled.

"I see Jack hasn't changed these months," Taylor observed with a smirk, taking a seat on the sofa.

Emma followed and waved a hand, "Don't pay attention to him, he's a pessimistic bore. Tell me about Oliver. _Oh!_ The ring. Let me see it." At that, she snatched her friend's hand and pulled her close, and Taylor snorted with disbelief.

"Wrench her arm off, why don't you, Em?" Tom shook his head, polishing his glasses with his sleeve. "You know, my cousin got his wrist dislocated like that. Got tugged and then _pop!_ Clean off. Maybe it was broken." He sighed, "Makes me worried."

Jack turned and smiled at him respectfully, "Are you sure? That sounds extreme."

"Oh. Maybe it was a fracture."

"Probably."

"It was still _very _painful."

"I can imagine."

"I hope not," Tom winced. Jack laughed.

In all cases, Tom Woodhouse was definitely the most _polite _worrywart hypochondriac. Brownie points had to go somewhere.

Emma finished inspecting Taylor's ring finger, nodded with satisfaction, and latched herself onto imaginary plans of throwing an engagement party.

"We've been engaged for nearly two months," Taylor frowned, clasping her hands. "I mean, we already jumped the gun on sending invitations out, but mostly because Oliver's cousin is in the stationery business and he got us a discount. Isn't it too late to throw an engagement party?"

"Um _no_," Emma scoffed, as if this was the most absurd notion in the world. "No such thing. But you want it before the month is over, I'm thinking. I can arrange everything. Oh! We can have it at the Donwell Country Club. Can you imagine how pretty that would be? Group pictures by the brook and the gazebo, tented, _love ballads_--"

Taylor turned miserably to Jack, "I love her and I hate her all at once."

"That's normally the effect," he smiled. "Did I say congratulations?"

"You didn't," Taylor grinned.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks, Jack."

"--_maybe _formal, but you want to give people flexibility," Emma prattled on. "_Semi _formal would be ideal, guys in dress shirts and ladies in mid length skirts, summer dresses and cardigans, whatever. _Definitely _no jeans. And we can book that band from the Jameson wedding, Dad, don't you remember the Jamesons' son, Lucas? I should call his wife and get some phone numbers."

Tom opened his mouth and closed it. Then he started, "You might want to focus on finals. Just a suggestion."

"But I'm exempt from most of them," Emma explained.

"Most. Not all," he cautioned.

"But I have _plenty _of time--"

"Listen to your dad, Emma," Jack said. She frowned.

"I smell confrontation; that's my cue," Taylor teased, getting to her feet. She smiled and kissed her friend on the cheek, "Don't worry about it, Ems. We'll figure it out. Call me up and we'll talk." Taylor slung the strap of her purse over a shoulder.

"You're leaving?"

"Yeah, I have to get back. Mom's visiting from Hopewell and guess who has dinner duty?" Taylor forced a smile and it quickly died. "Ugh, maybe I should just get takeout. My version of cooking is making instant coffee and toast."

"What do you usually get for takeout?" Jack teased.

Taylor rolled her eyes, "_Not _Chinese. God, I knew you were going to go there. Every time."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"I know."

Fifteen minutes later, Taylor showed herself out, and Emma was left to her sighing raptures as Tom went on about how strange it would be with Taylor married. He was never too big on change. Jack leaned against the doorway, watching Emma skeptically with his arms folded across his chest. She looked up at him and asked him what was wrong.

"You're totally congratulating yourself right now, aren't you?" Jack said, bemused. "In your mind, there's an award ceremony going on and George Clooney is handing out the ribbons."

Emma opened her mouth to argue and paused, "Why George Clooney?"

"Because during the last three _Ocean's Eleven_ movies, you would reach across and grab my hand and tell me, and I quote, _Dear God, I'd like that man with a slab of butter_," Jack said flatly. "In between the popcorn snatching."

Emma blushed and her father raised his eyebrows at her from where he sat at his armchair. She glowered at Jack, "I am _not _congratulating myself! And I never did that; it was probably Taylor. Or another friend of yours. Assuming you have other friends." She tossed her red hair purposefully.

Jack snorted, "Oh, _burn_. Did it ever occur to you that maybe Taylor and Oliver would have met at Ethan's party _without _you introducing them first? People do tend to mingle at social events."

"Yeah, right. They were in entirely different social circles."

"Yeah, not really."

"I got them to break out of their groups."

"Emma, they were at the same _table_."

"Oh, Jack," Emma sighed, shaking her head. "I feel sorry for you, I really do. Some people just can't see the greatness. It's a skill, just accept it. It's fate. I see two people, the gears chink in my head, and it comes to me:_ they belong together_."

There came a gargled noise from the back of the room and Tom cleared his throat and apologized for interrupting.

"Let me get this straight," Jack stared at her blankly. "You make one lucky _guess _about a couple, and suddenly it's your destiny, your enlightened _path _to match people."

"That's right."

"You're ridiculous, Emma."

"You're just jealous that you didn't see it first," she suggested, grinning.

"Yeah, that's definitely it," Jack replied dryly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And how many more people are you planning to match up like this?"

"Why, Mr. Knightley, my help is extended to whoever may need it! There is no _number _involved. The sky's the limit," Emma grinned, eager to push buttons. When Jack groaned, she rolled her eyes, "Seriously, what's the big deal? I'm _good _at it. It's my way of helping people. For instance, there's this girl in my Sociology class who has this massive thing for a boy who just moved from West Chester--"

"Emma," Tom spoke up, anxious. "They have eHarmony for this kind of thing now. You sure you want to get involved?"

"Where's the harm?"

"Just that you could be extremely _wrong _about people," Jack assured her. "Not everybody is as black and white as you make them out to be. People can have many different dimensions to themselves that they don't necessarily show you."

"I already have a father, thanks Jack."

"_Emma_."

She rolled her eyes, "Look, don't worry about it. I got it covered. I'll work with people I know. For example, I'm thinking Ethan Perry. Now there's a guy who could use a good match. Ever since his last breakup, he's been a _mess_. And that party he threw a few months ago? Disaster. He needs a helping hand."

"Ethan Perry's out and about, Emma; I'm not so sure he needs much help with women," Jack chided. "Choose another guinea pig."

"You're so cynical," Emma shook her head. "Lighten up."

"Who else is going to keep you in check?"

"You mean _try _to," she corrected with a grin. Jack rolled his eyes.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I decided to grind out a weekly update. Yay! Will it last? Yeah, I don't know. Guess it depends when I'm willing to ditch studying. I really have to stop that. It's going to be kind of sporadic. But yeah, I'm going to go cheese factor on you for a second and say that I love you guys. Like, all the readers from PIRLS jumping on the review wagon again? It's kind of heart warming. Think finale to _Friends _heart warming. That's pretty big. :)


	3. All the Harmless Sociopaths

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter Three: _All the Harmless Sociopaths  
_

"Easy on the hot rollers, Nora. This isn't _Bride of Frankenstein_."

Nora Goddard glared with the heat of a thousand suns and aimed a hair tie at her crew chief. It ricocheted off of the edge of the counter and landed in the bobby pin dish. Emma snorted and turned back to the supply cabinets, filling her arms with two round brushes, a can of hairspray and two tangled gray wigs.

"Look at me, I'm Emma and I know _every_thing," Nora continued as she wrapped the ensemble member's hair in hot rollers. She yanked a little too forcefully and Sarah Kipling, alto representative, scowled at the pain. "That was sarcasm. Just thought I'd point out."

"Of _course_ it was," Emma grinned, primping her auburn ponytail self importantly. She started, groaning, "Grace, no! Don't touch that, we're keeping you in the wig for the third number, remember?"

Grace Shapiro, face slathered in stage makeup, slouched in her seat. "I hate Babette."

"You auditioned for the part," Nora argued, unwrapping one of Sarah's curls. "Take the 'grats and move on."

"I'm a feather dusting _whore_," Grace insisted, her fake eyelashes batting. She touched her hair self consciously. "This wig makes me look like Doc Brown."

Emma snorted and sat at the edge of the counter, folding her legs Indian style. She rested her head back against the mirror and glanced around.

The hair room was in complete and utter ruin following two consecutive days of dress rehearsals for _Beauty and the Beast_. Tangled hair dryers, flat irons and curlers were scattered all over the counter. Bobby pins were trickling onto the floor. Wigs were _everywhere_, along with remnants of a lunch from, hell, _three_ days ago? She wrinkled her nose.

Also, the costume department had trouble being contained. A bra had been shoved into the fourth shelf of the supply cabinets, right next to the Clairol hair dye. Emma rubbed her face wearily.

It was her third year working at Surreyburg Playhouse and spring productions were always a bitch, especially backstage. It was different to be behind the scenes than in the spotlight. Emma had gotten a leading role two years ago in Rodgers and Hammerstein's _Cinderella_, but found she enjoyed the hustle and bustle of backstage life even more. The flurry of costumes, the manic running in heels, the overblown stage makeup, fifteen second changes, dance music _blaring_.

Of course, the deadlines and the thankless hours of working backstage had been overlooked then. Not to mention that the theater ran non profit. Emma enjoyed it anyway.

Except recently, when she had finals looming ahead _and_ a best friend's engagement party to plan. To add that sparkling cherry, Jennifer Gibbs was out with mono, leaving the hair crew short one member two weeks before opening night. _You just _had_ to suck your boyfriend's face off _this_ weekend, didn't you, Jenny?_ Emma commiserated with herself.

"You know Dara called?" Nora suddenly shared, "she still wants a lunch date with you." She sat down and opened a bag of chips, having finished with Sarah Kipling and shooed her off to rehearsal. Grace still sat sulking, only now she was slurping from a coffee thermos, iPod earbuds firmly in place.

Emma sighed and blew her bangs out of her face absently, not really caring one ounce for Dara Bates. She winced inwardly. Okay, a little harsh, _fine_. But Dara Bates was like glue. Glue with verbal diarrhea and the talent of attracting socially awkward pariahs. Sometimes family friends were completely unavoidable. Pity friendship, Emma had always called it.

Of course, Jack had always been the first to defend Dara. He was irritatingly goodie two shoes that way, quick to stand up for those who probably didn't deserve it. Emma had the half suspicion that it wasn't so much the self righteousness in him that spurned their arguments, but his insatiable need to constantly point out that she was wrong.

She kicked the chair lightly with the toe of her shoe, thinking about him, back at Columbia with his smartass comments and his constant carping . _Pompous Know-It-All_. She _would_ find somebody for Ethan Perry and prove Jack wrong. She'd find someone lovely and perfect and well mannered and—

There was a tentative knock on the door, and a short brunette girl poked her head in the doorway. Nora turned, "_You_! Get your cute butt in here, you're early."

The girl blushed, looked at Emma and looked back down. Nora yanked her inside by the wrist and she laughed, stumbling over her feet.

"Emms, this is the girl I was telling you about," Nora prefaced, inspecting her chipping turquoise nail polish absently. "This is Heather Smith. She just moved here from Pasadena and I thought I'd get her involved with us whackjobs here at the SB."

"Oh right," Emma nodded, remembering now. "We might need you to replace Jenny."

Heather Smith broke out into an incredulous grin, her eyes lighting up. "Oh, I'd be _so_ grateful for a job here!" She clasped her hands together.

"You understand it's non profit."

"No, of course; I'd just love the chance to be in this environment," Heather admitted, smiling timidly. Emma noticed how absurdly blue her eyes were. She cocked her head. _Hey, a couple coats of mascara and who knows..._

Though rough around the edges, Heather was a cute girl. Humble and understated. She had dark, straight brown hair and a habit of slouching that came from a lacking confidence in herself. But she was _ridiculously_ nice and overly grateful at the opportunity to make new friends, which pleased and flattered Emma. Anything to boost the swollen ego, as Jack would have snarkly added.

Emma's fingers almost twitched as she inspected the girl, who stared in wonder at the wreckage that was the hair room. God, if she could just get her into a cocktail dress and do her makeup, the heavens would probably split open at the end result. Heather was brimming with potential. Emma sat up straight, her mind churning._ To take on a new project, or not to take a new project? _

The months ahead flashed in her mind. _Finals. Taylor's engagement party. Theater production. Taking care of Daddy. Fulfilling bridesmaid duties. Apartment hunting with Jack. Arguing with Jack. Showing Jack that he is not, contrary to popular belief, "the shit"._

She slumped. _Damn, I'm booked_. _Time, why have you forsaken me? _It would have been such a good outlet to her creative spirit too; and a worthy cause as well. There was just no room in her life lately. Still, she was itching to spruce up the mundane – in terms of her _schedule_, of course.

Heather's mouth was hanging open. "Oh my gosh, you guys even have those light bulbs around the mirrors! Just like the hair salons in the _movies_! That's fantastic."

Nora raised her eyebrows.

"You're so cute." _In_ _the uninformed, borderline ditzy sense of the word_. "Nora, let's take her out for lunch and shopping. I'm just compelled to do it. This place is sucking my soul dry."

Nora rolled her eyes, "It's a Sunday and we're not getting out of here before three; unless I sweet-talk Bobby or promise him my firstborn."

"Bobby?" asked Heather.

"Our manager," she clarified.

"He _would_ want your firstborn, wouldn't he?" Emma grinned, gray eyes narrowed. Nora glowered and her face colored. Emma took it as encouragement: "I'm telling you, he likes you. _A lot_. If you don't make something happen, I will."

"Yes, that's what we're all afraid of," Nora sighed, pulling her hair back into a messy, blonde bun. She slumped her shoulders and raised her eyes heavenward, "_Fine_, I'll go to talk to him." At that, she snatched her purse and marched out. A second later, she poked her head back in, "This doesn't mean I'm your bitch."

"Of course not."

"Nora Goddard, represent." The door slammed.

Emma turned to her new friend. "Don't worry. Give it two, three years. I foresee a fall wedding. Outdoor, understated theme, white canopies. You feeling it?"

"Um," laughed Heather brightly, her blue eyes nervous.

And Emma felt a surge of warmth towards the girl. Schedule be damned, it would be her responsibility, nay, her _destiny_, to embrace this fledging young soul and transform her life. She grinned, mentally stamping her decision.

_You are such a good person_.

Emma mentally charted out her plans as Heather untangled the wigs. Of course, a makeover was in order. A tune up in the self esteem department. Heather Smith was also in dire need of social interaction. _Of course_; Taylor's engagement party fit like a glove! And maybe, just _maybe_, if she managed to work Heather into Ethan Perry's peripheral vision…

Emma sat straight up, astounded at the general brilliance of her thoughts. Perfect. It was all _perfect_. Mapped out, set in stone, and foolproof. This would work.

_Suck it, Knightley_.

* * *

Jack was, like most rational students his age, employing that familiar task of studying and lunching simultaneously that Sunday. His internal, word slurring ability insisted he call it _stunching_, but something told him the terminology probably wouldn't stick.

And midway through a paragraph about Existentialist thought and the contemplation of the word _brunching_, The Clash's "Janie Jones" interrupted Jack's reverie. He put down his turkey sandwich and groped for the cell phone in his pocket.

"Yellow?"

"_I am officially almighty_."

Jack hesitated, "God? Is that You?"

"_I'm serious Jack_," Emma's tinny voiced enthused. "_I've found the perfect girl_."

He brushed a crumb or two off of his mouth, "I'm so happy for you. I knew this day would come."

"_For _Ethan_, smartass_. _I found a girl for Ethan_."

"Ethan's asexual," argued Jack.

"_Ethan is not asexual_," insisted Emma.

"Damn, I really thought I could convince you," Jack sighed, leaning back in his seat. He plugged and unplugged the flash drive in and out of his Macbook distractedly, and the act made little _ping!_ sounds reverberate around the coffee shop. A girl two tables over asked him to stop.

"Habit," Jack apologized, grinning.

She smiled and looked down, tucking a strand of her hair behind an ear.

"_Ew_," Emma mimed dry gagging, "_are you flirting during our conversation right now_?"

"Better use of my time, don't you think?"

"_Pig_."

"Four legs good, two legs bad."

"_I'm hanging up now_," Emma warned.

"Good; you called _me_," Jack rolled his eyes.

"_Fine_," she said heatedly. There was a pause, and then Emma asked (in softer, sweeter tones): "_Um, so you're still coming over next Sunday to help with party arranging, right? It's practically non-negotiable_."

"You're unbelievable."

"_Is that a 'yes'?_"

Jack sighed and rested his chin in his palm, "Tell you what. I'll help you out if you answer this question."

"_Shoot_."

"When Satan spawned you, were the horns _clipped_ or were they just hidden—"

_Click_. Dial tone.

Jack smiled, "Good girl."

Finally, some peace.

Of course, she called back three minutes later anyway.


	4. Oh, Inverted World

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter Four: _Oh, Inverted World  
_

Ethan Perry was having one of those days when a man is prone to questioning his existence. Not so much in Nietzsche principles but more along the lines of "Oh hell, I had way too many beers last night, I wish I were dead". Existence was still being contemplated.

In his defense, Ethan was having an impossibly shitty month. Scratch that, an impossibly shitty month stapled to about three shitty preceding months. It had all escalated after Chloe Bishop had dumped him. He flunked out of three classes directly after that. Oh, and then got fired from Bed, Bath & Beyond when he was caught sleeping in the Martha Stewart Living department.

But as far as being a broke, single, (teetering) college student went, Ethan still had hope and ambition. Better yet, Ethan had charm. And charm, why, that's what usually attracted loaded girls like Chloe Bishop in the first place. Okay fine, blatantly telling Chloe that he was less interested in a relationship and more interested in her father's brokerage firm had been a mistake. But it was a slip of the tongue caused by one too many appletinis and he swore it wouldn't ever happen again.

_What you need is a fresh start_, Ethan thought to himself as he got out of bed that morning. He would get to class, pour everything he had into his studies and begin again. It was a solid, respectable Plan B. Plan A being of course that he find somebody to mooch off of for a little while.

His own family was wealthy, but years of rebellious teenage drinking and partying had gotten Ethan firmly booted out of the house when he hit eighteen. His father was a strong believer in making it for yourself. Ethan, not so much. Leeching off of the Perrys' rich and unsuspecting friends seemed a lot more substantial. Well connected friends worked nicely that way.

So he brushed his teeth, shaved, slicked his hair back, dressed presentably and checked for dirt on his shoes. A spritz of Burberry cologne here. A whitening strip there. He was smiling contentedly when he gave the cab driver the Woodhouse address.

* * *

As a matchmaker, Emma thought it imperative to be prepared. But when a girl is accident prone (_see_: spilling a pitcher of orange juice, forgetting her debit card at Macy's and leaving half of her skirt stuffed into her underwear after a trip to the ladies' room) some boundaries might be pushed. Unfortunately for Emma, Heather Smith had committed all these acts in one day. Not even. One_morning_.

_Patience, patience, patience_, Emma reminded herself with an even breath. She told herself that this was her third visit from Heather and that her friend had shown great improvement in confidence since they first met a week and a half ago. For instance, she no longer asked if she could use her bathroom. Progress.

"Are you sure this looks okay?" Heather asked nervously, examining her reflection in the foyer. Emma looked at the girl in the full length mirror and grinned. She was wearing a jewel tone dress that made her eyes pop, a pretty little thing she had bought for her at Anne Taylor. Heather had finally shut up about the price tag ("It's a _gift_, Heather") and was now on to complaining about the cut. "It feels _tight_ here. I don't feel comfortable with showing this much leg either."

"Well you don't want it to be a muumuu, do you hon?" Emma chided gently, straightening the sleeve. "It's beautiful! Look how it compliments your eyes."

Heather blushed and broke out into a smile, which seemed to make her forget about the fit. Emma winced. So, she had yet to mention _where_ she intended Heather to wear the dress, but what the girl didn't know wouldn't hurt her just yet.

"So where are you going to school in the fall?" Emma asked her in the living room, as Heather shimmied out of her dress. Nobody was home and they had the house to themselves.

Heather smiled, "I'm going to Rutgers in Jersey but I'll be back to visit my mom during the weekends. You?"

_Hm, weekends are good. I'm sure Ethan would be fine with that_. "NYU, business major. I'll still be in state."

"Oh, that's great!" Heather beamed, slipping a tee shirt over her head. "Congratulations!"

"Hey, you too," Emma grinned. "Oh, let me help you with that. You've got your arm in the neck hole." She twisted the fabric for her.

Heather snorted, "Thanks. I'm kind of a mess sometimes. My ex boyfriend used to call me Klutzilla. Not a really nice guy, come to think of it."

"Damn," Emma winced, but she clearly saw an entrance. "Meet any nicer guys since?"

"Not really," she shrugged. A look came on her face then, one of shy embarrassment. "Well um, maybe one. But I don't know him too well."

Emma goaded her on and Heather broke out into happy babbling: "So okay, his name is Robbie Martin, and he's one of the sound technicians back at the SB and he is _so_ sweet. He's got such a good taste in music. He made me a mix the other day and Emma, it's _wonderful_. I told him to download a couple of my favorites, but he hasn't gotten around to it yet. He's so _adorable._"

Emma experienced a momentary brain lapse from shock. It took about thirty seconds for this all to sink in. "Robbie _Martin_? From _Surreyburg_?"

"You know him?"

"Of course I know him; I've worked there for three years."

"And what do you think of him?"

_I think he's a twenty something not even in college with an alcoholic mother and a little sister to take care of. And I'm pretty sure he's a druggie. And what in God's name are you _thinking_, you can do _so_ much better, do I _seriously_ have to hit you?_

"I think he's nice."

"_Isn't _he?" Heather gushed, absolutely thrilled. Emma sighed and fretted with the couch cushion. Heather's expression shifted, "Oh no. What's wrong?"

"It's just that," a soft, heart jerking sigh, "Robbie's _nice_ and all but – Heather, there are better guys out there."

"But," Heather frowned, "I really like him."

"Yes, but does he feel that way about _you_?" Emma asked, folding her hands in her lap. "I mean, he didn't even listen to your _songs_, did he? If he's not willing to pay you this attention…"

"Well," she swallowed. "He _is_ really busy at home. He has some family problems, and he works part time at a bunch of different places."

"If you say so."

Heather bit her lip, "I thought he was ignoring me the other day at rehearsal…"

Emma gave her a warning glance, "He can be _very_ easily distracted."

"Then again, it was a really demanding rehearsal now that we have the score."

"_Every_ rehearsal is demanding, Heather," Emma suggested, patting her hand. If possible, Heather looked even more distraught. So Emma hopped to her feet and smiled, "Okay! I'm going to see if we have something to drink. You want anything? Iced tea? Lemonade?"

"Okay," she said quietly.

"Cheer up," Emma called out, disappearing into the kitchen.

The doorbell chimed, one of those ridiculous, drawn out melodies Jack usually made fun of, and Heather timidly approached the door. "Expecting company?"

"Not really," Emma frowned, poking her head around the corner. She tossed an iced tea to Heather and jogged into the foyer. _Jack_ _and I agreed for Sunday, not today_. She peered through the stained glass and turned the lock. Ethan Perry grinned at her from the doorway. Her mouth fell open.

So much for being prepared.

"Emma!" Ethan smiled, kissing her cheek. "Beautiful as ever. Can I come in?"

"Uh, sure! One second though." _Slam_.

Heather raised her eyebrows and opened her Snapple. Emma wrestled the bottle out of her hand and Heather whined, confused and thirsty. "What the--?" She proceeded to straighten the girl's top and flip over her hair to one side, touching up her makeup here and there. "Emma," Heather laughed, "what's going on? Who was that? What are you _doing_?"

"You'll see," Emma rushed. "Oh! In my purse, in the kitchen, there's a tube of lip gloss in the side pocket. Go. Now. _Apply_."

"But—"

"_Heather!_"

"Jesus, fine." She disappeared around the corner.

Taking a breath, Emma wrenched open the door and smiled widely, "Ethan!"

He looked a little bewildered, dragging a hand through his coppery blond curls. "That was um, neighborly of you. Everything okay?"

"Of course. Come in." She yanked him inside by the wrist and he almost stumbled over the threshold. "I haven't seen you in so _long_, Ethan," Emma continued without a beat, all polite smiles. "What are you doing here?"

"Just in the area. Thought I'd stop by."

"How's school?"

He stared at her, dark eyes wide for a moment. "Uh, fine, thank you. How are you? You look so pretty."

Emma snorted, raising an eyebrow, "Thanks for the flattery. I'm in _sweats_, Ethan Perry, stop trying."

"Can't help it if I have a beautiful friend," he smiled crookedly, leaning against the banister. "You know, I was just thinking about you the other day—"

"_Crap_," Emma sighed, glancing at her watch. "I promised Daddy I'd pick up his clothes from the cleaners at eleven. I wonder if she'll mind tagging along…"

"What?" Ethan gaped.

"Oh, sorry. Were you saying something?" Emma tilted her head. She shrugged and took his hand, "Anyway, come into the kitchen. I have a friend over and I know you'll just _love_ her. Everybody does." _Well, everybody meaning Nora, but come on, the girl's precious_. She led him inside.

"Emma, is this gluten free?" Heather held up a box of raw noodles she had found in the pantry. "I have a wheat allergy – _oh_. Hi."

She inwardly cringed. Ethan smiled politely.

"Ethan Perry," he extended a hand. "I'm a family friend of Emma's."

"I'm Heather," she smiled, coloring a little. "Just a friend." Nervous giggle.

_Dear God_, Emma winced. _Oh well, best get cracking_. "Ethan," she grinned, resting a hand on his forearm, "Heather's new in this area, did you know? I thought I would show her around Manhattan."

"Didn't we just go today?" Heather asked.

"Just the Upper East Side," Emma smiled patiently. "Know of any restaurants I could take her to downtown?"

"You would know better than me, Emma," Ethan smiled. "You're so street savvy. There _is_ that new sushi fusion restaurant opening downtown though. My friend Mark knows the owner." He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting uncomfortably. "Maybe we could go."

Emma chewed on her lower lip in thought. "Heather, do you like sushi?"

"I think so…"

"Well, uh, actually, Emma, I meant you and—"

"Oh!" Emma spun around on her heels, "I almost forgot to tell you, Ethan. Taylor is getting married!"

"I know," Ethan grinned. "I got the invitation a couple weeks ago. Crazy, right?"

"No," Emma laughed, taking the tea kettle from the stove. She shoved it under the faucet and turned the tap on. "What's crazy is the engagement party I have to plan by the end of this month. I've already booked May 31st at the Donwell Country Club. You free?"

"That's a week from today," Ethan said incredulously.

"I'm a fast girl," she smiled.

"Will you be there?"

"I'm _planning_ it."

"Oh," Ethan laughed at himself. "Silly question. Will _you_ be there?" he asked Heather.

Heather stared at him, wide eyed and speechless. She had no idea.

"Of _course_! I should invite Heather!" Emma said excitedly, eyes lighting up. "I don't know why I didn't think of it before. And you'll love everybody there, we know such good people. And how convenient, you can wear that pretty dress we bought today!" _Of course, we still have your hair to take care of_. _Bangs and highlights might be cute._

Heather held her opposite arm awkwardly at the elbow. She was suddenly shy. "I'm not sure if I should. I don't know anybody except you and—"

"You should come," Ethan smiled warmly.

She looked up at him and Emma caught the pink tinge to her cheeks. "Okay."

Emma leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest, positively grinning. _Why am I so damn good_…?

* * *

By the end of the week, Heather knew a handful of lovely people. Her top two 'Favorite' slots were occupied by Nora and Emma, by default (she had _never_ been greeted with such friendship). The latest addition she met that Sunday when Jack Knightley caught up with them at Starbucks.

They sat together at a table by the windows, where the morning light flooded in and pooled at their feet. Emma was reading from a folded copy of the _New York Post_, a chai tea latte in her right hand and an open daybook in her left. She was skilled in the art of multitasking.

Heather stared at her, drummed her knuckles against the tabletop, and tried to keep her insecurity at bay. But when you have a friend like Emma Woodhouse, it isn't difficult to feel plain. She sighed. Emma was almost _effortlessly_ pretty. Even now, in yoga pants and a tank top, she could trump the average woman. She was tall and statuesque, graceful and thin. She had full, wavy auburn hair, big gray eyes, and beautiful bone structure. Maybe she was too pale, but freckles dusted over the bridge of her nose and her face lit up when she smiled.

_If she wasn't so sweet and likeable, people would probably want to kill her_, Heather thought to herself, laughing under her breath. Emma glanced up.

"Hey, you want the rest of my bagel? I'm full," she shoved a plate towards her.

"Nope," Heather grinned. "Thanks though. Is your friend coming soon?"

"Probably," Emma shrugged. "You'll like him, I think. That is if he decides not to be such a pretentious ass today. He promised me he would help plan logistics for Taylor's party. God, there's _so _much work to be done before next Sunday." She sighed, running a hand through her hair distractedly.

"I thought we were going to your yoga studio," Heather frowned. She looked at the rolled up mats leaning against the window pane. She had even dressed for the occasion, as the studio often admitted visitors free of charge and Emma had insisted that it would work wonders for her posture.

"We are," Emma sipped her latte. "But class isn't for another hour. We'll just chill here for a bit. That okay with you? There's a bookshop down the street if you don't want to stay. And Plato's Wrists, just across. It's a cute antique jewelry store."

"No," Heather insisted. "That's fine, I have no problem waiting here. Isn't he expecting us at Starbucks anyway?"

"Yeah, but a little chase wouldn't hurt him," Emma grinned deviously.

"You really have it in for this guy, huh?"

"_No_," she laughed. "Jack's my surrogate brother. I have a pretty fond affection for getting on his nerves. My life isn't quite complete without it."

"Cute," Heather snorted, tracing a ring her coffee cup left behind. "And then we ditch him for yoga?"

"That's the plan."

"What got you into that?"

"Torturing him?"

"No, yoga."

"_Oh_," Emma laughed, shaking her head. She tucked a strand of her hair behind an ear and sighed, looking upward in thought. "Well, when my mom died, the family psychologist insisted I _pool_ my aggression into some energy channeling exercise. I think I went through a martial arts phase for about a month, but a neighbor took me to a yoga class at a YMCA four years ago and I fell in love with it."

"It seems too spiritual and touchy-feely for me," Heather admitted sheepishly.

"It depends which kind," Emma smiled. "Don't knock until you've tried it."

"Is that how you're so thin? Bending yourself up like a pretzel?"

"Nope, that's genetic. My mom was a stick too. My dad's always been a toothpick." She cocked her head to one side, a little regretful. "I'm pretty much a thirteen year-old boy."

"Shut _up_."

"No, seriously! At least you have curves."

"I'm too short. I don't like my body."

"That's because you're _de-lu-sion-al_," Emma enunciated, spacing her hands with each syllable. Heather laughed, supporting her chin in her palm. She traced circles on the tabletop.

"You've got to have more faith in yourself," Emma said sincerely. "You're a really special girl. If you don't believe it, nobody else will." _Not even your precious Robbie Martin._

"Sorry, I thought the Women Empowerment speech came at four," criticized a deep voice behind her. Emma craned her neck up until Jack's face, inverted and smug, smiled back at her. "Hey-ho, Dr. Phil."

"Hey, Jack."

Jack grinned and set his bag on the window ledge. He caught notice of Heather from across the table and greeted her warmly. Introductions came very easily after that, and he pulled out a chair and proceeded to tell them about "some douchebag" who was harassing a middle aged woman on the subway that morning. Heather was delighted. Not necessarily from the topic itself, but from the sheer energy Jack Knightley spoke with. He was lively and sincere and when he looked at you, he did it as if you held purpose in what he was saying. She grinned.

"So anyway," Jack slumped in his seat, "the moral of this tale is that people suck."

"Thanks for that," Emma nodded tersely. "Two minutes of my life I'll never get back."

Jack looked at Heather, "I'm telling you right now, if you have a choice to be friends with her at this point, choose _not_ to. Once you get suckered in, there's no turning back."

"You make it sound so scary," Heather joked.

"It's terrifying," Jack insisted. He slipped the daybook from beneath Emma's hands and she opened her mouth to protest before she realized Jack was actually going to attempt to help her. She rolled her eyes heavenward.

They sorted through the guest list. He axed off about fifteen members he stamped as assholes.

"Karen Harris is an old _woman_, Jack."

"She's still an asshole. Remember what she said about your father?"

"I forgot about that," she murmured.

"I don't know how you're friends with so many fake families."

"Comes with the Woodhouse tree, I suppose," Emma grinned.

Then they sorted through a couple prospective bands to book and divvied off seating arrangements for another time. Heather watched them in silence, except for an occasion or two when Jack asked for her input, simply for conversation's sake.

"Seating arrangements will be easy," Emma insisted, leaning back in her chair. "Well, _my_ table anyway. Heather, I'm totally seating you next to Ethan Perry. Be forewarned."

Heather gaped at her, "_Why_?"

"Did you _see_ the way he looked at you yesterday? You would be adorable together. _There_, I said it."

"Congratulations," Jack said dryly, stealing a sip from her coffee cup. "I know it's just been _eating_ at you all this time."

"Wasn't he just being nice?" Heather asked, unsure of herself. "Besides, he seemed to talk to you much more than me."

Emma waved this off, "He's just _shy_."

Jack snorted as he was drinking and launched into a coughing fit. He cleared his throat, "Sorry. Tickle. In there."

Once it was made certain that Jack Knightley was in proper health, Emma continued on the topic of Ethan Perry for about fifteen minutes until the seed had been planted in Heather Smith's mind that the boy was a _very_ good catch. Jack sat back and sighed melodramatically, wondering how his best friend could possibly be filled with so much shit. He contemplated making a public service announcement about it.

"I'm not suggesting what you should or shouldn't do, Heather," Emma continued graciously. "But don't write him off just yet out of shyness. He's a good guy.

Jack shoved a creased napkin in front of her. Emma read his neat writing: _You're incorrigible. Let the pride go and leave the girl alone._

Emma murmured, "Not your issue, buddy."

_Ethan Perry is a __**tool**_. Underline, underline, exclamation point.

She took the pen._ Wrong!_

Heather stared, not very well acquainted in the language of paper napkins and _mumbling_. Emma sighed and looked out across the table. Then she glanced at her wrist, where there was no watch fastened. "Oh, look at that. Class starts soon. Heather, we should make our way down, don't you think?"

Jack looked up, "Ditching me to align your _chakras_?"

"I'm glad you understand," Emma patted his shoulder.

"You should come with us," Heather suggested, not entirely sure _why_ she suggested it. Neither did Emma, that was certain. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms pointedly. Jack _hated_ yoga. In fact, he teased her about it constantly. Worse yet, he would use the opportunity to plot Ethan against Heather's good favor, just to prove her wrong and spoil her matchmaking plans.

"_Heather_," Emma whined.

And it was probably _this_ tone that caused Jack to look at her purposefully and smile, green eyes narrowed. "I'd _love_ to."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Sometimes Jack's personality reminds me of Rupert Everett in _My Best Friend's Wedding_. You know, minus the homosexuality. Anywhoozle, I love you guys. Thanks for reading!

_Edit_ (7/14/09): Okay fine, Rupert Everett plus Paul Rudd plus Jack Davenport plus insert-your-choice-here. Everyone happy? Gosh. :)


	5. Your Man Against Mine

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter Five: _Your Man Against Mine_

"Heather Smith is mayor of the Sheep People," Jack said thoughtfully. "Sheeple. _Sheeple_town, New York."

"Are you done?" Emma scowled, flapping out her mat aggressively. It skidded against the hardwood floor and Jack flinched a little. "I wonder if you would say that to her face if she wasn't in the lockers right now."

"Of course. Because I'm _such _an asshole," Jack rolled his eyes. He straightened out his own mat as other people started trickling into the small studio. "Look, Heather's a sweet girl. But she's your ideal target. New girl, low self esteem? She's like silly putty in your hands."

"That's ridiculous."

"Admit it," Jack smiled. "You _love_ telling her what to think. And she gobbles it up like Kibble."

"That's such a lie!"

At that, Jack pivoted his hands on his hips and tried to twirl his hair in a clear imitation. "_Oh my God, Heather_," his voice rose an octave, "_vanilla lattes have like _so_ many calories. Pick the Americano! And you're definitely wearing the blue top to class, okay? I took the liberty of putting it in your gym bag because I am the shit. Yuh_-_huh_."

Emma's eyes actually smoldered.

One row ahead of them, a middle aged couple glanced back at Jack with their eyebrows raised.

Jack's arms fell limply to his side. "How you doing?"

Emma scoffed, "I do _not_ talk like that. Thanks for mortifying me in front of the entire class."

"What, all your chess buddies?" Jack looked around. "No, wait. There's somebody your age. Oh, no, she's old. Caught her from the side. Good profile."

"You're unbelievable," Emma sat down fitfully, glaring at him from over her shoulder. "You only came here to ruin my plans for Ethan and Heather. Admit it. You just love proving me wrong. Nothing brings you more satisfaction, does it, Jack?"

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. Emma stared straight ahead. She decided to ignore him and held her hands together in a meditative pose. Within a moment, she could feel him sitting down beside her. She bristled when he leaned in close.

"I'm sorry," Jack murmured.

Emma turned towards him skeptically.

He looked annoyed, "Just let her think for herself, okay? Ask her what _she_ wants."

"You make it sound like I'm this shrewd, manipulative bastard. I only want what's best."

"I know," Jack laughed. "You think I don' know that? Who knows you better than I do?"

Emma shrugged and said nothing, plucking at a stray thread on her shirt. _Not many_.

"Hey," Jack nudged her weakly. "If you don't want me to say anything, I won't. But only if you stop being so controlling. Let things happen on their own. Deal?"

She stared at his hand for a few seconds and grudgingly took it. "Deal."

The door to the studio creaked open and Heather burst in. She smiled apologetically and rolled out her mat. "I'm so sorry. Am I late? I couldn't get the combination to work on my new lock. It's horrible. I'm not late, am I?"

"You're not," Jack laughed. "Take a breather. Sit."

"Thanks," Heather smiled gratefully.

The yoga instructor soon followed. She was one of those impossibly hip, organic forty year olds. Her long brown braid was dappled with gray, her body was slim and twiggy, and her yoga mat was made entirely out of recycled bamboo shoots. She seemed exactly the type of woman to study at some ashram in India, or at the very least, spend her Sundays shopping at Whole Foods or Trader Joe's.

"Welcome class," she smiled warmly. "I'm Donna. To those who are returning, it's wonderful to see you all again. And to our new students, I thank you for joining us on this path to _self discovery_."

"Good Lord," Jack sighed.

Heather smothered a laugh with her hands.

Fifty five minutes later (following thirty two poses, three mantras, and a swift change in the locker room), Emma and Heather met Jack sitting outside in the lobby, thumbing through a catalogue.

"Miss us?" asked Emma, slinging her gym bag over a shoulder.

Jack glanced up, "Not really. Girl talk in the locker room? No thanks."

"Is that," Emma peered closer, "a furniture catalogue? You in the market?"

"I already told you that Toji is moving out. He's leaving two empty rooms I have the responsibility of filling."

"I love Toji," grinned Emma.

"Who's Toji?" asked Heather. "And where's he going?"

"He's my roommate," Jack shrugged. "He's spending the summer with his band in England; it leaves his room free."

"I love Toji's band," shared Emma, mostly to herself. "It's kind of like Pete Yorn and Brandon Boyd had a love child." Jack snorted and got to his feet, gesturing towards the door.

"Wait," Heather bit her lip. "Are you looking for a roommate?"

Jack hesitated, "Are you interested?"

"Well, not _me_," she elaborated, wringing her hands together. "This friend of mine is moving out late June. We were talking about it earlier."

"Oh? Who's this?" asked Emma.

Heather rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. "Robert Martin."

Jack froze in his tracks. He looked delighted. "Robbie's looking for an apartment?"

"You know him?" asked Heather.

"Man, I spent so many weeks at Surreyburg looking after this one," Jack jutted his thumb back at Emma. "Of _course _I know Robbie. Upstanding guy."

"I know, right?" Heather was thrilled. She had unconsciously clasped her hands together, and now successfully resembled a little girl on Christmas morning.

"I had no idea you were friends!" Jack continued. "I haven't seen him in months. You should definitely tell him about the apartment. He'd make a great roommate. Or better yet, give me his number. I've probably switched phones twice since I saw him last."

"Oh." Heather sobered. "We _talk_, but I'm not really sure if ...we're friends. I mean, I guess we _are_." She shifted her weight, flustered. "He's really nice, but I don't-- I-- um. I don't know if he would call me-- yeah."

Jack's mouth stretched into a slow smile. He looked at Emma pointedly, who took the opportunity to feign interest in her shoes. As they headed towards the street and Heather disappeared to dump her bags into the trunk of their cab, Jack caught his best friend alone and revealed his observations in sing-song: "She _li-ikes_ him."

Emma scowled and wrenched open the car door. "And _I'm_ the one who jumps to conclusions? Such a hypocrite."

"Don't compare," laughed Jack. "At least I'm not shoving them down her throat."

"Oh, that's graphic. Thank you."

"Anytime," he smiled.

* * *

The next week had its fill for every single day.

On Monday, Emma finished her last two finals. One for Philosophy and the other for Statistics. Then she cleaned out her locker, shoved old binders in her backpack, brushed her hands off and kissed Highbury goodbye. Well, at least until Tuesday evening anyway. She spent the rest of the day reading a Jonathan Safran Foer book her English teacher had recommended and doting on her father. She chased after him with dinner and took care of his laundry load. Tom's work sometimes made it impossible for him to distinguish between three o'clock and seven.

On Tuesday, Emma graduated. Jack, Taylor and her father attended the ceremony. After two hours of formalities, the gaggle of graduates muddled with their relatives in a throng of heartfelt words, flower bouquets and congratulatory balloons. Jack had been the first to find Emma in the crowd. He grinned from ear to ear, tossed her over his shoulder and spun her around until the hysterical laughter made tears spring into her eyes. They spent the evening eating takeout Chinese out on the condo terrace, toasting with styrofoam cups filled with green tea.

Wednesday, Emma couldn't exactly remember. The first day of summer generally works that way. She slept until noon. Then she contacted Toji to play at Taylor's engagement party, made arrangements with caterers and finished sending the last of the invitations out. She and Heather spent the evening in a fog of hairspray and curlers at Surreyburg, tending to yet another dress rehearsal.

On Thursday, Heather called Emma at seven in the morning, on the dot. She flailed like a dying seal and caught her cell phone at her bedstand, bringing it blearily to her ear. Through sleep slurred words, she found herself almost unconsciously agreeing to some sort of arranged meeting. It wasn't until two espressos later that she realized she had just agreed to meet Heather at Jack's apartment building; Robbie was with her and they wanted to show him around the apartment. Her spoon clattered at the kitchen table and she winced, "_Damn_."

Tom Woodhouse was sitting at the island with a wrinkled copy of _The Wall Street Journal _and even more wrinkled shirt cuffs. He looked up, "What's wrong?"

Emma sighed and rose out of her seat, cradling a cup of coffee beside him. She _tsk_ed and wiped off a ring his cup had left on the countertop, and then proceeded to roll up his sleeves neatly. "Daddy, you've got to be more careful."

He smiled, "Do you ever take care of _yourself_, Emmabee?"

She wrinkled her nose and laughed. With a middle name like 'Lee' and a childhood fondness for the colors yellow and black, certain nicknames can be latched on pretty tightly. Emmabee was a case in point. "Of course I do. You just need an extra set of eyes. You sure you want to wear that tie?"

Tom looked down at his tie nervously, "Why wouldn't I?"

"It's red."

"So? It's a power tie. It's pretty bold."

"It's pretty _bad_," Emma corrected with a grin. He mussed her curls and she laughed and pulled away with a shriek. But Tom eventually got up and disappeared upstairs into his bedroom, no doubt rethinking his wardrobe decision.

Emma rinsed out his cup and folded the newspaper, placing it next to his briefcase in the foyer. Then she showered, dressed, and caught a cab, thinking that Sunday _ser_iously wasn't coming around fast enough. She gave the address to the driver and slumped against the seat, reminding herself to be civil. She actually heard Jack's voice in her own mind, all, "_Can we adjust the 'tude, please? This isn't about you_"; Emma snorted. She was spending way too much time with the illustrious Mr. Knightley.

Either way, she _did _bring around coffee and bagels as a truce for her bitchiness. Jack opened the door of his apartment and his eyebrows shot up.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Wow," he smiled, taking the Einstein Bagels & Co. bag from her. "Come on in."

Emma clicked the door shut behind her and slipped her shoes off by the door. Boxes were lined up in all directions, cluttering about 2/3rds of the entire apartment. She followed Jack into the kitchen, which (no surprise) was actually intact. A blurred ball of black and white skitted towards her and Emma grinned, kneeling down to scratch Jack's dog behind the ears. She was a big beautiful border collie with bizarre vegetarian tastes, and Emma slipped out a plastic bag full of carrot slices from her purse.

"Hey there, Moxie girl. Brought you a present."

"Carrots again?" laughed Jack, glancing over his shoulder. Moxie buried her snout in the bag. "That dog is a disgrace to all dogs."

"Leave her alone," Emma cooed, petting the scruff of her neck affectionately. "She's such a sweetheart."

Voices weaved their way into the kitchen and Emma looked up, inching towards the doorway.

Heather was standing in the center of the living room, and beside her stood a tall, lanky young man. Emma tilted her head, trying to lighten up on the criticism. So _okay_, Robbie was pretty cute. If you went for the awkward, gangly indie cofeeshop types. He had warm brown eyes and a head full of shaggy dark blond hair. Also, there was the bonus of a nice smile. A smile he wore often, since he seemed pretty delighted in everything Heather Smith had to say, interesting or otherwise (which, let's face it, was usually otherwise). Robbie was polite and sweet and even-tempered, so maybe he had a few cards in his favor.

"Assessing our candidate?" Jack suddenly asked, and Emma flinched at the realization that he had been watching her. Not just watching. _Judging_. He wore his usual smirk. The 'I know you better than you know yourself' one. Emma narrowed her eyes. _Model #582 in the Jack Knightley Smirk Catalogue_.

"_No_." A pause. "Maybe."

Jack nodded sympathetically and suddenly whistled, catching Robbie's attention.

Robbie looked up with surprise. "Jack? Oh, hey Emma. Didn't you see there."

She smiled and walked out into the living room, "Hey, Robbie. You're interested in the apartment?"

"Very," Robbie grinned. "Thank God Heather brought it up; I've been having a hard time the last few weeks."

"Why the sudden move?" asked Emma gingerly, softening the intrusive question with a smile. "Everything okay at home?'

"Yeah," he shrugged. "As okay as it can be. Mom's actually spending the next six months in Colorado at a retreat and wellness clinic. Jenny's in Dad's custody for now. They live up in Washington State. Jenny's my sister," Robbie clarified for Heather after she asked. "And I start school in the fall, so I figured fresh start, new place. Align my inner chi," he laughed. "Not really."

Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder, "Dude, seriously. I'm giving you a good price. How many more places are you thinking about?"

Robbie looked upward in thought. "There's one in Lexington with a lot of space and a decent price, but it's right above an Indian restaurant and the entire place smells like curry 24/7. It's fucked up," he laughed, looking from Jack to Emma and back.

"Pass," grinned Heather.

"I'll let you know, Jack," Robbie shook his hand. "Thanks."

"No problem," Jack said. "You're leaving?"

"I have a shift at noon for Urban."

Heather gasped, her blue eyes lighting up. "Oh, I _love _their scarves!"

"Visit me. I need the distraction," he grinned. "Bye guys. Thanks, Heather." Robbie kissed her briefly on the cheek and went off to collect his belongings by the door. Heather turned beet red and tried to conceal a smile, which obviously failed. Emma sighed and watched as the door swung shut behind him.

"You think he'll take it?" Heather asked Jack excitedly.

"I hope so," he smiled. "Robbie's a good guy."

Heather smiled. Moxie sat near her and she sank to the floor to rub the collie's belly. The dog spread out lazily, her eyes half closed with happiness. And as Jack followed Emma back into the kitchen, he couldn't help the smartass little smirk that came across his face. Emma rolled her eyes as soon as she saw it. _#583_

"What are you grinning about _now_?" she sighed.

"Nothing," Jack shrugged nonchalantly, taking a beer from the fridge. "Absolutely nothing."

Emma watched him suspiciously as Jack leaned against the counter. "Just tell me now so I can decide whether or not it's worth hitting you over."

Jack finished a sip from the bottle and laughed. "Okay, then. I'm _winning_."

"How do you mean?"

"Robbie Martin, 1. Ethan Perry, _Nada_."

Emma snorted. "Wow. Really, Jack? _Really_. You sure you want to go there?"

"Pretty much," Jack nodded. "It's my _destiny_," he imitated, pretending to be in raptures. Emma flicked a bottle cap his way; he dodged it and it clattered into the garbage can. "Money shot."


	6. To Be Alone With You

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter Six: _To Be Alone With You  
_

Nobody knew how Emma had done it.

But May 31st rolled around the corner and Taylor Lau and Oliver Weston experienced the engagement party of a lifetime. The Donwell Country Club had everything suited to the guests' tastes. Flutes of champagne, an opulent ballroom, waiters in penguin coats – and those little mini quiches being passed around as hors d'ourves and prospective ammo after one too many trips to the bar. It was a triumphant event.

Taylor sat on the counter of the ladies room, swirling a glass of wine. She watched as Emma washed her hands and said with a dry smirk: "So, you're a wizard. You know that, right?"

"Hold the applause, please," grinned the redhead.

"Really," she laughed, "your persuasive powers must be extremely fine tuned to wrestle a shindig out of this place in _one_ week flat. And the _music_? That guy is beast."

"He is," Emma agreed.

"Expensive?"

"Toji? Nah," she waved this off. "He's Jack's ex-roommate. Owed me a favor from awhile back. It involved a couple of kegs and a stray cat and I'm probably not going to get into it here."

"Wise decision," smiled Taylor. She hopped off of the counter and examined her reflection. Emma smiled appreciatively. Someone had finally wrestled the photographer out of sweats and into a lovely pale blue dress. Her waist length black hair was tied back in an elegant chignon, and she was wearing mascara for the first time in her life. It was a marvel itself.

"Look at you," Emma teased. "The belle of the ball. Oliver hasn't stopped smiling all night, by the way. His jaw muscles must be killing him."

Taylor beamed. "I think it's almost unethical to be this happy."

"Yes well, once you get into wedding preparations, it's going to be all downhill from there," muttered Emma, reaching for her clutch on one of the seats. "But you'll have me as your maid of honor, and I'm pretty much loaded with emergency supplies of Advil. And small doses of Percocet."

"Oh, poor Mr. Woodhouse," laughed Taylor. "Trust you to be prepared."

"Daddy's a bit of a hypochondriac," Emma winced.

"God love him," was her friend's response. "Shame he couldn't be here tonight."

Emma waved this off: "He's just tired. And Dr. Kotz is having dinner with him tonight. They're tight. They'll be up late watching _Outbreak_."

"And then a totally fun discussion on Swine Flu will follow?" deadpanned Taylor.

"You know my father way too well."

"Years of experience," Taylor laughed. She turned towards the door and sighed. "Back to the old grindstone."

"That's what you've been calling it?"

"I can't keep my fiancé waiting!" grinned Taylor. She wagged her finger, "And you've been dodging dances all night. Please put Ethan Perry out of his misery."

"Ethan _Perry_?" Emma's mouth fell open. She grinned, incredulous. "I don't follow."

"That boy's been hounding you all night. He's kind of like a puppy. Almost looks like one too."

"Oh, please. I'm his only way to Heather, you see. You know how it goes," smirked Emma, as it suddenly dawned on her. "Get close to the friend, find your way to the main girl."

"Is _that_ how it goes?" asked Taylor dryly, unable to conceal a smirk.

"Um, duh."

"Right," soothed the soon-to-be Weston. "Okay, crazy. _Vamos_."

She urged the girl out of the bathroom, through the lobby and into the ballroom. It was eleven in the evening, meaning that many were good and drunk and crusty dishes were lined up along the white linen tablecloths, begging to be cleared. Clusters of couples completely obscured the dance floor, and Toji Jameson, with a guitar pick in hand, delicately serenaded them with a cover of Ben E. King's "Stand By Me" in his soft, lingering baritone. He nodded at Emma from across a slew a tables and she grinned and waved in acknowledgment.

Taylor kissed her on the cheek and abandoned her for the dessert table. Then Heather found her, completely aglow. She clutched her hands and squealed: "I'm having the most _wonderful _time!"

"Are you?" laughed Emma. She scanned around for Ethan's face. "Is Mr. Perry charming it up?"

"Perry?" Heather's face screwed up. "Oh, _Ethan_? No, God no. I haven't seen much of him since he asked me to pass the shrimp puffs during dinner. I mean, he's very nice and all. But Nora's been dancing with me all evening and I had about three glasses of Pinot Grigio and I am _good _and _set_—"

Emma winced and steadied her friend. "Okay, hon. Just take a deep breath." _This is so not going to plan_. She spun around and stood on her tiptoes, examining the crowd. She looked past familiar faces and others that weren't so familiar. Nora Goddard stood, entranced, next to the adorable musician enchanting the guests. Beside her, Dara Bates was chatting insipidly and giggling at her own phrases every few seconds. Emma sunk down to her heels to avoid being seen. Just then, a tap on her shoulder surprised her and Emma turned fast on her heels.

Ethan Perry looked happy to see her, his broad handsome face lit up with his smile.

"You are the most _difficult _girl to catch up with."

"I accept the compliment," laughed Emma. She took his hand, "I'm so happy to see you, Ethan! You see, Heather's just _dying _to dance."

"I am?" asked Heather.

"Of course you are," responded Emma without missing a beat.

Ethan nodded and smiled gallantly. "I'd love to." He offered her the crook of his elbow, "After you, Miss Smith."

Heather blushed. She hiccuped into her palm, and Emma prayed that she wouldn't stumble over her feet or make a fool out of herself.

She watched him lead her out to the dance floor and couldn't help the grin that pulled at her mouth. Something about those two together filled her up with the best sort of satisfaction. She crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side as Ethan spun Heather gingerly and pulled her to him, and the brunette tossed her head back and dissolved into giggles.

Beside them, Oliver Weston had scrapped his tie and was patiently dancing with his future mother-in-law. Taylor found him from behind and wrapped her arms around his waist, and Emma watched as he laughed and kissed her. He was one of the most easygoing guys a person could ever meet. And the party had loosened him up further. His red hair was disheveled and his pale, freckled face was flushed from all the champagne. But he had never looked happier as he embraced his fiancée, and Emma's smile deepened as his did. All these happy couples were making her nearly euphoric. But that could've been the contact buzz from all the alcohol.

"You're such a creeper."

Emma whirled around and nearly smashed headlong into Jack Knightley's chest. He steadied her and laughed warmly, his hands perched on her shoulders. "_Easy!_"

"You scared me!" breathed Emma. She passed a hand over her eyes and sighed. "People keep sneaking up on me. I am _not _the creeper here."

"Yeah, but you're the one who pulled this all together," he reasoned. Jack dropped his hands to his side and cocked his head, "You're the girl of the hour and people want to inflate your already inflated ego."

"That's sweet," retorted Emma. She looked up, "But I had some help in this, you know."

"_Really_?" Jack's green eyes grew wide. "No _way_. Someone awesome helped _you _put this together? Who could it be?"

"Did anybody ever tell you that sarcasm makes you sound like a Valley Girl?"

"Jonathan might have mentioned it once or twice."

"Good man."

Jack grinned and fixed the sleeve of his shirt. He had long deserted any reasonable excuse of a dinner jacket and had gussied himself up in his own version of fancy: an extremely casual gray button-up and a pair of slacks with black, well worn Chuck Taylor's. Emma arched an eyebrow and asked him if he could ever just _try _to make an effort.

"This _was _an effort," he argued. "I'm a poor college student. All I can afford is jeans and t-shirts now. Be grateful I'm not wearing Levis."

"Like you're so poor," Emma rolled her eyes. "Mr. Ivy League with the rich parents."

"Rich parents? You should talk."

"Yeah, but I have one," she held up a finger. "_One _parent. Singular."

"Give Tom some credit," insisted Jack. He looked up with disapproval. "He adores you with all his heart."

"I know," answered Emma quickly. Her face tinged a little pink. Something about his words had suddenly made her feel ashamed of her own. "I know that, and I'm grateful. Seriously, I am. I didn't mean—"

But his smile was warm again and Jack shook his head. "Don't sweat it. I know."

Emma looked up and sighed. She searched his face and laughed, a silent truce. A change of subject soon followed. "Okay fine, you don't look _that _bad."

"Oh, thank you," bowed Jack. "As long as I pass the evening wear of a hobo in your standards, it's probably a good day."

Emma grinned and straightened his collar for him. She thought Jack Knightley pretty fortunate in his appearance. He didn't have the pretty boy favor of Ethan Perry, nor was he incredibly built and sturdy like Oliver Weston. But he was reasonably tall and athletic, with a kind smile and bright clever eyes. In high school, a couple of girls had sought him out through her and it wasn't as if she _didn't_ understand his attractiveness. A soccer player, lanky and charming and intelligent. But he had been too close to her; too much of a brother. Too many arm wrestle matches and burp fests and mornings where they both woke up a little shitfaced. Even _entertaining _a thought past friendship was awkward. Emma shook her head and dropped her hands to her side.

"Don't look now," Jack suddenly murmured by her ear, all smiles. "Here comes your favorite person."

Before Emma could process his words, Dara Bates came pummeling into her vision. She snaked her thin arms around her and delivered a hug that was more like a Heimlich. Emma staggered back and forced laughter once the oxygen had wormed its way back into her lungs. "Oh, Dara!" A sharp intake of breath. "You silly…thing."

Dara Bates beamed from ear to ear. She was a tall, gangly girl in her late twenties. She was _extremely _affectionate. She grasped Emma and Jack's shoulders, pulling them towards her. "You _guys_! You've been avoiding me all night, haven't you?"

"Of course not!" thundered Jack.

"Never, Dara."

The older girl laughed in her high, lilting voice. Girls like Miss Bates bordered on the happily eccentric. She had deep red, almost mauve hair sliced into a boy cut; her flare for fashion was an unusual one. Her earrings were peacock feathers and she wore furry, knee length boots beneath a flowered and puffy sleeved cocktail dress. Jack had long since embraced her streak of uniqueness; she amused him. But Emma, on the other hand, seemed to have the worst of her temper drawn out by Dara since childhood.

"I'm digging the boots, Dara," smiled Jack, looking at her shoes. "Interesting choice."

"Oh, that's so _sweet_!" clapped Dara happily. "Do you like them? They're faux of course. The thought of people slaying rabbits for these is just _awful_. I had a bunny once, you know. I was eight and he found his way into our tomato garden and Mom let me keep him. I named him Panther; it confused _everybody_!" She giggled. "I thought it was so clever."

"Boots are seasonal though," Emma pressed. She smiled with patience. "Those are more suited for a ski trip, don't you think?"

"Oh," Dara's cheeriness faltered a little. "I guess. Gosh, maybe I should have called _you_. You're so put together all the time! Such a pretty friend I have."

"You look beautiful, Dara," Jack insisted. "I say wear the boots. It's such a shame when good things are restricted in time frames."

"So _very _true," gasped Dara, and she took his hand. "Like Pumpkin Spice Lattes. I get so depressed after the holidays. They should be served yearlong! Mother agrees."

"How is your mother?"

"Her rheumatism is acting up."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Emma said with all honesty. Mrs. Bates was too sweet of a woman to overlook, and her father had been friends with her for years. "I'll have to visit you all very soon and bring her that tomato basil salad she loves so much. That would cheer her up."

"Oh, we'd be _so _grateful, Emma dear!" Dara's tawny eyes were bright. "You're an absolute _angel_. Mother always says you're the most excellent cook! You _must _visit us. She would just _die_. Then we can watch my_ 24_ DVDs. Jane just bought me Season 3."

"Awesome—"

"My Jane," Dara gushed. "I _still _can't believe you two haven't met my stepsister yet. She's away in India, you know. Off on a mission trip, rebuilding houses and an orphanage. I'm so proud of her. What a generous heart she has! You would _love _her. By the way, I forwarded her last email to you both. And your father _and _Taylor."

"I haven't checked my Gmail lately," answered Jack.

"I got it," said Emma coolly. "All five. This _month_."

"Beautiful!" smiled Dara. "That's fantastic. I hope you didn't mark it as SPAM though. I get the most awful SPAM. Mother, too. Just yesterday she opened her account, and would you believe it? _Four _people had sent her advertisements and promotions for male enhancement—"

"Dara!" Nora Goddard had somehow pushed her way into their intimate little circle. Emma stared at her, wide eyed and grateful. Nora linked her arm in with Dara's and smiled sweetly. "They have cake out, you know? Let's go get some!"

"I _love _cake!"

"Hey, me too." At that, she led her through the throng of guests and towards the dessert table.

"I swear she has ADD," Emma blurted impatiently, once she had gone. Jack snorted into the glass of wine he was drinking and clapped his hand over his mouth. "I'm _serious_!" insisted Emma. "Give that girl a frigging muzzle, please and thanks."

"She can't help herself; she's just _happy_," he cleared his throat.

"She reminds me of a chipmunk."

Jack sighed. "You have to be more tolerant, Emma. That girl has been friends with you since you first moved here. There isn't a thing she wouldn't do for you."

And knowing this, Emma reduced her complaints to some choice mutterings under her breath. She scowled and stole a sip from his glass.

"Look," continued Jack with a good humored laugh, "we _all _get a little fed up. I mean, who wants to hear about the saint stepsister Jane Fairfax for the _billionth _time? But you grit your teeth and you bear it. You can't ignore all that's good in a person just because they have a couple faults."

"Or loose screws."

"_Emma_."

She waved this off. "Whatever—I'm past it. I'll just look at Ethan and Heather and be happy again. That's my instant mood lifter. Their success is my success."

Jack raised his eyebrows and followed Emma's line of sight to the dance floor. Ethan Perry was dancing yet a third number with Heather Smith. And body language offered no sudden revelations. His hand was a comfortable distance just above her hip, their bodies several inches apart. And Perry was smiling his amiable little smile and probably talking about something really banal like_ American Gladiators_ while Heather basked in every word.

"Such a tool," he muttered. "What do you see in those two?"

"They're _adorable_."

"He's not even into her. That's pity friendship dancing. It's a notch up from the Cotton-Eyed Joe."

"That's just your competitive streak talking. Robert Martin is _not _going to win," Emma smiled, instantly happy. "You can ignore the signs, but the chemistry is _there_. Your new roommate just doesn't have what it takes."

Jack stared at her thoughtfully. He shook his head and emptied his glass. Then he set it down and strongly debated the pros and cons of starting an argument with her there. Luckily, Taylor Lau interrupted them before he could open his mouth; she asked him to dance and Oliver offered his own hand to Emma.

Taylor laughed as she led Jack to a corner of the dance floor. An acoustic cover of The Smiths' "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" was blaring from the speakers, and he grinned as she sung the opening lyrics in a throaty, off-key soprano. Then she laughed and he settled one hand around her waist and cupped the other in hers.

"Leave it to me and Oliver to stop an argument before it hatches, right?" Taylor's lips quirked into half of a smile.

"Right," snorted Jack. "What, you saw Emma flaring her nostrils from fifteen feet away?"

"Buddy, it was _you_. You get so tense and broody. I can spot it a mile away. And she pisses you off so easily."

He smiled a little ruefully and sighed. It was a silent agreement.

Taylor looked over at Emma across the myriad of dancers. She was dancing happily with Oliver, her face illuminated by the multicolored lights. Her dark green dress was a lovely contrast for her features, and it softened the auburn hue of her hair. Emma was a very delicate, elegant girl when she wanted to be. Taylor reasoned, "Hey, at least our third musketeer is beautiful. There's a tally for Emma Woodhouse."

Jack looked in a similar direction. "True. But beauty's not where her arrogance comes from."

"She's not arrogant," soothed Taylor. "Just a little misguided, Jack. You're too harsh sometimes."

"I worry about her judgment."

"That's because you care about her."

Their conversation dwindled as Toji strummed through the bridge of the song. Jack peered out across the dance floor and back at Table #13. Heather was sleepily swaying to the beat. Ethan sat beside her, finishing a glass of wine. He was staring straight into the bundle of people in front of the stage, and his blue eyes were fixed on Emma as if she alone existed in a sea of countless others. Jack's eyebrows rose.


	7. Sorry, Dad

**Author's Note**: Hi! Please don't throw things at me.

* * *

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter Seven: _Sorry, Dad_

Weight training had never been one of Emma's strongest suits.

Her colorful Pumas dug into the carpet, arms pulled tight against the flaps of a cardboard box, wisps of red hair falling out of her ponytail and into her face. "Bastard, bastard, _bastard_, come on, come _on_."

An arm propped the front door open, and Robbie Martin grinned down at her. "Aw, Emma, I asked you to take the _light_ one."

Emma huffed and got to her feet, her face flushed. "Why do you need four DVD players?"

He paused, "I used to work at a Circuit City. Got these super cheap."

"Then _sell_ them. You've heard of eBay, right?" Emma's arms dropped to her side. That had come out with more bite than she expected. Now, Robbie watched her in silence, lips pressed into a thin line. She cleared her throat and kicked a dust bunny with the toe of her sneaker. "I, uh, could help you open an account."

His smile was warm. "That's sweet of you."

Wordlessly, Robbie piled her box on top of his. They slid to his chest and he walked up the stairwell without much struggle. Emma watched him and tried not to judge the gaping knee holes and paint flecks on his jeans. He was a chief set designer at Surreyburg.

When she had unloaded sheets from the back of the pick-up, Emma reentered the apartment and hurled them onto the sofa. Jack's apartment was empty for now, completely cluttered with moving boxes and mismatched furniture and appliances. There was a blender, cracked and ancient, perched on top of the television set. Moxie nibbled at the prongs of its plug and Emma gasped and pulled it away. "No, girl," she murmured, patting her side.

For a minute, she relished the silence and rubbed the back of her neck, eyes sliding shut. She smiled to herself. Oh, this was good. A bubble bath and some Jack Johnson would be _ideal_ right about now.

The door slammed open, shook the painting on the wall, and jolted Emma from her daydream so quickly that she actually flinched. Jack was hollering the _Rocky_ theme, complete with his own vocal trumpet fanfares. He set two boxes down gently and grinned at her, "Good morning."

Emma glared, "It was."

"Ow," Jack placed a hand over his chest, digging for an imaginary blade. "_Ow_, it's in deep. It's in_deep_."

It wasn't that Jack Knightley had a holier-than-thou clamp on her conscience, no. It wasn't that he had practically _begged_ her, in puppy dog fashion, to help Robbie Martin settle into _his_ apartment. The problem was that Jack was consistent morning person and it made her delight in the sadistic image of pouring a pot of hot coffee in his lap.

But that wouldn't do, so she settled for flipping him off.

Jack laughed and disappeared into the kitchen. His head popped out around the corner a few seconds later, eyes narrowed critically. "Hey, did you do something new with your hair? It looks like it has more volume."

Emma's eyebrows shot up. She touched her ponytail self-consciously. "Really?"

"Yeah." Jack slapped his knee, "Oh _wait_, I'm sorry. That's just your big, melodramatic head."

He ducked when she threw a plastic spatula from the cookware box and they both laughed when it ricochet off of the dishwasher.

At this point, Robbie was in the living room, peeling off duct tape. "You two are children, I swear."

"I bit him once," said Emma proudly.

"Yeah, last year," Jack added. "A disagreement at Macy's."

"Actually, we were 7; Jack threw woodchips in my face."

Robbie grinned and opened his mouth to comment, when his pocket buzzed. He slipped his phone out and excused himself into the hallway, already smiling. _Heather_. Emma's eyes narrowed suspiciously. She looked over her shoulder, relieved that Jack was already in the kitchen. She took out her own Blackberry and sat down on the couch, texting Heather.

**_From: Emma Woodhouse_**  
_Hey. Snagged Ethan yet? ;)_

She sat on the sofa, cross-legged, and scratched Mox behind the ears.

**_From: Heather S._**  
_He hasn't called since the engagement party. :( But it's OK, because I wanna ask Robbie to the movies today! Think he'll say yes? I'm so nervous._

Emma sighed, fingers already on her keypad. Jack hollered from the kitchen to ask if she wanted something to drink and she called back for some tea. "What the hell, Ethan Perry," she murmured.

**_From: Emma Woodhouse_**  
_Don't. I'm helping Rob move into Jack's and he's super swamped. Watch, he'll probably deny it._

Ten seconds.

**_From: Heather S._**  
_He did deny it. LOL he's so cute! :))_

Emma rolled her eyes.

**_From: Emma Woodhouse_**  
_You're better off hanging out with somebody who has time for you, Heather. You should be nobody's second. Call Ethan._

**_From: Heather S._**  
_:( Robbie just said he's really busy. But I can't tell if that's a 'no' or not, because before he said he'd love to. He doesn't want to go, does he?_

**_From: Emma Woodhouse_**  
_Hate to say I told you so._

Emma smirked, tongue in cheek.

**_From: Heather S._**  
_I'll call Ethan._

"Triumph!" Emma pumped her fists.

**_From: Emma Woodhouse_**  
_If that's what you want, hon, go for it_

**_From: Heather S._**  
_Thanks Em! :DD_

She tossed her Blackberry onto the couch and propped up her sneakers on the coffee table, pleased with herself.

Jack walked in and handed her a mug of green tea, which she graciously accepted. He raised an eyebrow and dried his hands on the hem of his t-shirt. "I don't like that look," he muttered, green eyes darting up. "What have you been up to, Woodhouse?"

Emma grinned, "Oh, you know. Debauchery, in general."

Jack half smiled at sat next to her, stealing the remote. "Hey, _Harry Potter_ marathon on ABC Family. You game?"

"I can't watch Harry Potter with you anymore. You spend like, two hours afterwards speaking in a really bad British accent," Emma laughed.

"You mean a really _good_ one."

"No."

"Snogging. Dodgy. Knickers. Mum."

Emma snorted.

Robbie walked in, staring at the screen of his phone. He looked puzzled.

"What's wrong, gov'nah? _Oof_." Jack scowled at Emma and rubbed his stomach. She beamed.

"Heather asked me to the movies. And I said I was free, right? I mean , a little busy _now_, but I'll be free tonight. And then all of a sudden, she's like, oh, sorry, I forgot I have to do laundry." Robbie looked up, frowning. "What did I do wrong?"

"All day?" Jack balked, "She has to do laundry _all day_."

Emma was suddenly very interested in watching _Chamber of Secrets_. She bit her lip.

Robbie rubbed the back of his neck, tense. "Maybe it was something I said." He scanned through his texts again.

"Not something _you_ said," murmured Jack. His eyes were on Emma, who had perfected a look of detached indifference. He sighed and covered it up: "Maybe she's just being flaky."

"No man, don't say that." Robbie looked affronted. "Heather's a really sweet girl. She's not like that at all."

Emma lowered her eyes.

"I'll stop by her place tonight and see if she's okay." Robbie decided at length, sliding his phone back into his jean pocket. He had a hopeful little smile on his face, and for a second, Emma felt a twang of guilt. Jack's guillotine stare didn't help matters either.

She crossed her arms defiantly.

* * *

"How was it?"

Heather had agreed to meet Emma for breakfast at IHOP the following morning. Menus were quickly pushed back, and Emma was eager to hear details. Wild, long, success story details. Her eyes were huge.

"It was good," Heather shrugged. "I like most of Katherine Heigl's movies, but it was a little predictable, too. Like that one with James Marsden."

"Not the movie, Heather, how was the _date_?"

"Oh." Heather blushed, folding her hands in front of her coffee cup. "Um, it was good. Awkward but good. For some reason Ethan thought we were going as a group of friends. He was kind of disappointed when you didn't show up."

"Maybe he expected me and Jack or something."

"That's what I was thinking," mumbled Heather. She scratched her head, "But we saw the movie, and went for late dinner at PF Chang's. Then we talked for like, an _hour_ about ginger root, because his dad grows it for medicinal purposes and my mom used to swear by it before a cold—"

Emma winced. _Romantic_.

Heather sighed and leaned back in her seat.

"Aw, honey. Was it that bad?"

"No, it was good. Just…vague. I didn't know where it was going."

"He's shy."

"Yeah, I figured," Heather smiled. "He's charming, too. Cleans up real nice. He looked really cute. Our waitress was hitting on him, it was kind of gross."

"Is that why you look so upset?" Emma grinned, touching her hand. "You're so silly, as if some random waitress can compare to—"

"No, that's not it," muttered Heather. She rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. Her blue eyes met Emma's, doe-eyed and sad. "Ethan dropped me off at my apartment and we said goodnight. Robbie was standing at my stoop. He came to check up on me and saw me with Ethan."

"Oh." Emma sat back.

"He looked…oh my gosh, Emma, _heartbroken_." Heather sniffed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "He had flowers, too."

She sighed. "Ouch."

"I'm such an ass."

"Look, Heather, some things happen for a reason. Maybe Robbie _had_ to see it this way. He had to physically see that you belong with Ethan. I mean, really, how long can we hide this growing attraction between you two? It's pretty much like its own vortex."

Heather looked up. "You think so?"

"I _know_ so." Emma smiled sympathetically and squeezed her hand. "Don't worry. Robbie will be fine."

Heather smiled back, but didn't look very assured.

* * *

She had escaped the consequential phone calls and angry texts for two whole days. And just when Emma was starting to think herself victorious (again), she made the mistake of picking up her phone at a corner Starbucks without glancing at the Caller ID.

"Hello?" she answered with a smile.

Jack's voice was steely. "_Hi_."

"Shit," muttered Emma. She looked around quickly. "Oh hey, Jack! Can I call you back? I'm in the middle of a crisis."

"_Crisis involving a croissant, _The Times_ and a green tea frappuccino?_"

Emma narrowed her eyes, "Why are you so good?"

"_I recognized the barista's voice. And the Billie Holiday music on repeat._"

"Creepy," Emma said, tearing a piece of the croissant apart. She popped it into her mouth. "What's up?"

"_I really need to talk to you, Em. Stop by this afternoon, okay? Robbie's running errands_."

"What's this concerning?"

"_Oh, just you ruining lives for no good reason_."

"Oh, cool."

"_See you at 3_."

"Bye."

Click.

Emma set down the phone and stared at it with a sigh. Her shoulders slumped. She suddenly felt like a little schoolgirl about to be chastised for vandalizing the girl's bathroom.


	8. Girls Are Silly

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter Eight: _Girls Are Silly_

July was living up to its reputation. The city was scorching. The AC in Emma's cab uptown sputtered and coughed, gusting lukewarm air every so often. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and rolled down the window. "This okay?"

The taxi driver shrugged. "Don't know if it's gonna help you, honey."

Traffic was scattered and slow. By the time she got to Jack's building, Emma wanted nothing better than to burst inside his kitchen and run cold water from the tap. She jogged up the front steps, piling her long hair into a knot at the top of her head. "_Phew_."

At least the elevator was cool. Emma slumped against the wall, eyes closed, and waited for the 5th floor. It stopped at the 2nd. She opened her eyes to see a kid, dimpled and lanky, grinning at her from the threshold.

"Hey, Mama."

A snort. "Sasha. Always a pleasure."

He smirked cheekily and leaned against the rail. The 11 year old wore black shorts, clunky Nike sneakers and a wifebeater. A soccer ball was tucked under his arm. A blue backpack swung over his other shoulder. "I _told_ you to call me Alex."

"True. But I like your Russian name better," Emma smiled, ruffling his hair. He scowled and mussed it back into place. She laughed. "Going up to Jack's for the afternoon?"

"Yeah. We're gonna play some soccer. Mom's out visiting my grandparents in Brooklyn." Sasha's blue eyes lit up in challenge. "What's _your_ excuse?"

"Oh, you know. _Same_."

The elevator let out a _ding!_ and the doors slid open. Emma let him off first, looking at all the stickers on his backpack, especially the glaring yellow _Gogol Bordello: Gypsy Punks_ iron-on. She grinned.

Sasha swiveled on the balls of his feet. He looked skeptical. "Are you Jack's girlfriend?"

"Nope. We're best friends."

"Oh. So…you're single?"

Emma arched an eyebrow. "_Uh-huh_." He clicked his tongue and gave her two thumb's up, reaching back to slick his hair. She laughed and pulled him in for a one-armed hug. "Thanks, Sash. But let's try to find a girl your own age."

Sasha scowled as they walked down the hall. "My own age? But none of them have…_you know_." His hands cupped ample air in front of his chest, pivoting his hips to one side.

Jack's door swung open just in time for him to see Emma wring his neighbor in a loose headlock and mutter, "You twisted little _sicko_."

"…Emma?"

Her arms fell to her side.

"_Jaaack_," Sasha whined, "your girlfriend attacked me." He darted under Jack's arm, and shot inside the apartment with a huge smile on his face. Emma scooped up his abandoned backpack and zipped up one of the pockets.

"Little cretin."

"Oh, _that's_ nice."

Emma shifted her weight and hunted inside her purse. A moment later, she pulled out a white paper bag and pushed it into his hands. Jack found a blueberry muffin inside.

"This a bribe?"

"Nothing gets past _you_." She pinched his cheek and shuffled past him. Jack sighed and shut the door, turning around.

Emma was already at home in his living room, curled up in the armchair, face buried in a _Sports Illustrated_ magazine. It might as well have been an issue of _Glamour_ for all her misplaced intensity.

"Head's up, Captain."

A soccer ball went soaring across the room and Jack caught it and laughed. He bounced it off of one shin to another with ease before kicking it back across the room, where Sasha trapped it between his legs.

"No ball in the house, kiddo. I actually _paid_ for a lot of stuff here."

"Sucks," Sasha's face screwed up. "Hey, can I grab some cereal before we leave?"

"Go for it. I need fifteen minutes anyway."

The magazine plopped down on the coffee table and both men glanced over at Emma, who had let out a well-timed groan and was now sulking. Jack smirked.

Sasha _tch_ed. "Women. Drama, drama, drama."

"You said it, brother."

"Peace."

Emma watched Jack and Sasha exchange some cross between a fistbump, handshake and shoulder pound before the boy shot across the corner and disappeared into the kitchen to rummage through the fridge. _Kind of cute, gotta say._

But when she glanced back to Jack, all traces of laughter were gone. His jaw was tight as he kicked the soccer ball out from under the cabinets, letting it balance at the crook of his foot and shin. Emma could tell he was gathering his thoughts. Soccer had once been Jack Knightley's therapy punching bag of sorts.

"_No ball in the house_," she teased.

Jack frowned. "Not funny."

"Oh, Jack," Emma sighed, folding her arms. "Just _yell_ at me already, okay? I don't have time for an Oscar worthy performance. You're pissed. I get it. Out with it."

"Fine." Jack tilted his head, green eyes hard. "Why did you feel the need to butt into Heather Smith's business and manipulate her chances with Rob?"

"'Kay, that one's not so hard," grinned Emma. She was standing now, and had rolled the soccer ball back, dribbling it across the floor. She paused, "Ethan Perry's a much more reliable catch and you know it."

"Because he's rich."

"Well…_yeah_, but also—"

He glided past and stole the ball. "You're such a snob."

Emma clenched her jaw and lunged forward, but Jack had trapped the ball and maneuvered swiftly around her.

"They're just not _right_ together, Jack. Something doesn't click. Robbie will get over it."

Jack froze, livid. "Rob is _crushed_."

Emma's eyes darted up.

"God, you should have seen him last night, slinking up here like someone hit him in the stomach," he scowled. "And to see her with Ethan Perry no less, some hot shot in his shiny Mercedes."

"And _I'm _the snob," sneered Emma.

"Not the point." Jack raised a finger. "I would be pissed at Heather, because she can be so completely_dense_ sometimes, but I can't because I know it's all _your_ fault. She practically idolizes you. Why wouldn't she take the bait?"

"Bait?" Emma scoffed.

"You know, the bullshit you've been spoon-feeding her." Jack raised his eyebrows in challenge. "Oh, wait, let me guess. Ethan's just _shy_ and hasn't come around yet—"

"As a matter of fact—"

"He feels _so_ strongly for her that words and actions simply can't do it justice—"

"I—"

"_Or_ maybe you've told her he never makes the first move," Jack practically guffawed, "which is fuckin' hysterical, seeing as Ethan's a total manwhore."

Emma glared at him.

Jack's shoulders slumped. "Why can't you just _listen_ to me for once?"

"Because you're _wrong_."

"Oh yeah. Forgot about that one."

Emma stole the ball and rested one sneaker on it, hands on her hips. "Let's face it, Jack, your interest lies _less_ with being a good friend to Rob than it is telling me off. You've enjoyed lecturing me ever since we were kids."

Jack rubbed his chin. "Okay, that last part might have some truth, but Emma—"

"And he _admits_!" Emma raised her arms triumphantly. "_There_."

"—not everything is about you."

She looked up. Jack Knightley Lecturing Look #52 in The Jack Knightley Catalog. Stone Cold Serious, with a Dash of Eat-Your-Heart-Out Sympathy. _Order now while supplies last! _She scowled and opened her mouth to argue.

But then Jack kicked the ball out from under her shoe and Emma stumbled into him, grasping his shirt. His hands flew to her waist, steadying her.

Emma glared up at him. "_Jerk_."

"Meddler."

"What if I fell and hurt myself?"

"That's kind of why I _caught_ you."

In a moment, Emma was across the room again, gathering her things.

Jack laughed and shook his head, unlocking the door for her. He slipped off the chain and held it open. "You know, you've been working at Surreyburg too long, Em. Let's cool down the theatrics, yeah?"

"I'm taking the muffin back."

"Good."

"_Fine_."

The door slammed shut behind her.

Sasha peeked his head around the corner, a bowl of Frosted Flakes pressed against his chest. He grinned. "_Feisty_."

Jack looked over. "Eat your cereal."

* * *

Emma was determined all week. With Taylor's wedding looming in the distance, she needed to give Ethan the extra push he needed to ask Heather to be his date. It would cement their spark as a budding new couple and slap that incorrigible smug grin off of Jack's face.

So she decided to cut around the bullshit and plan it herself. Wednesday night, she wheedled Ethan into going shopping with them. He was all-too-eager to help, which pleased Emma to no end. After all, a man wouldn't selflessly throw himself into the crossfire of fitting dresses unless he was crushing on a girl. Heather, she was sure, practically had a date.

They had grabbed lunch an hour before and strolled through Macy's casually. Emma threw dresses off the racks and piled them into Heather's arms.

"Strapless might be good," she cocked her head, slurping from a smoothie innocently. "What do you think, Ethan?"

"_Very_ cute," he smiled, all pearly whites.

Heather blushed, accepting a pretty, violet colored number. "I like the sweetheart neckline."

"Go try this one on. Ethan and I will wait for you."

She made a bee-line for the fitting room and emerged a couple minutes later.

"Nah, I don't like the ruched fabric in the midsection. What about the navy blue one? Knee-length."

"Okay," Heather beamed, bustling back.

Ethan slumped against the bench, inspecting the Omega watch on his wrist. When Emma looked over, he smiled. "It's sweet of you to do this for her."

Emma waved her hand, "It's a girl thing. She's going to look so beautiful."

"Yeah."

Heather stepped out again, sashaying her skirt back and forth playfully. Emma clapped, "Gorgeous! Oh my gosh, Ethan, _look_ at her. She'll be the envy of the reception party, I swear."

"_Beautiful_," Ethan smiled, whipping out his camera phone. "Smile."

Heather curtseyed and grinned while he snapped the shot. "I think it's the one! …We might have to sew up the hem a little bit."

"I'll take care of it. We know the entire costume crew."

"'Kay. I'm going to go change."

She disappeared back into the fitting rooms.

Emma grinned and elbowed Ethan, "That's so cute that you took her picture. She's so flattered."

Ethan was scrutinizing the screen of his iPhone, "Emma, you have such an eye. You should be a professional stylist."

"Oh, come on."

"No, really. It's incredible. It's all because of you."

Emma frowned and sipped her smoothie thoughtfully. She glanced over to the right, where a woman was trying to persuade her husband into buying a gray ribbed sweater. She didn't immediately notice Ethan's hand on her knee.

"Emma."

She glanced over, startled that he was suddenly so close. And staring at her _mouth_.

"What are you—"

Then he lurched ahead, all puckered lips and gusto, and Emma yelped and ducked so that he stumbled against her shoulder.

She was up in an instant, gray eyes wide. The smoothie had spilled and strawberry goo was dripping onto the floor.

"Emma," Ethan laughed, "why'd you do that?"

"Why did _I_ do _what_? Did you just try to kiss me?"

"Well, duh."

"_Why?_"

Ethan snorted, raking a hand through his blond curls self-importantly. "Well, for starters, you're _really_pretty. And smart and funny. You take charge and you know what you want. We have a lot in common. Our families were pretty tight."

"But—but—but—"

"It's okay if you're scared," Ethan said meaningfully, taking her hand. "Because _I'm scared too._"

She yanked her hand back aggressively, paused and whipped it back to slap him across the face.

"_What the hell!_"

"You pig! What about _Heather_?"

Ethan scowled, hand pressed against his smarting cheek. "What about her?"

"I thought you were—I thought you liked—you and her—"

Ethan's eyebrows shot up, and his mouth twisted into an ugly smile. "Oh my gosh. You're not serious." He let out a bark of a laugh, "Me and _Heather_? Are you high?"

Emma's nostrils flared indignantly.

"She's _nice_ and all but," he smiled flirtatiously, "come on, baby, _this_ is where it's at."

Emma clamped her hand over her mouth.

"You okay?"

"No. No, I think I threw up a little bit." Ethan rolled his eyes and she glowered down at him, "Why the _hell_ would you go out with her, then? Dance with her? Treat her so well?"

"Newsflash, princess. _You_ asked me to."

Emma winced. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Ethan was at his feet then, arms crossed over his chest. "Does this mean you don't want me?"

"Yes," she snapped. "Ew. _Ew_. Oh my gosh. This is so wrong. _So_ wrong."

"Fine," Ethan scowled, draping his jacket over one shoulder. "I don't want girls who don't want me. You're such a friggin' _tease_, Woodhouse."

"_What?_"

"You've been flirting with me all this time! Inviting me everywhere."

"For _Heather_, you dumbass!"

"Whatever," Ethan growled. "Your loss." He fished out his keys and dangled them in her face. "Have fun getting home, sweetheart. I'm out."

She watched him walk out of the department, shooting daggers into his back. Her hands shook with anger. "_Son of a—_"

"Emma, the zipper in the back is _stuck_ and I'm not sure if…Emma?" She spun around to see Heather standing in the doorway of the fitting rooms, the navy dress in her hands. Her eyebrows rose in question. "What's wrong?"

Emma passed a hand over her eyes. "I hate Jack."


	9. Everybody's A Critic

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter Nine: _Everybody's A Critic_

Izzy and Jonathan were kind of disgusting.

To their credit, they managed it with a certain adorable finesse that Emma could tolerate now. Five years had desensitized the youngest Woodhouse to the giggles, neck rubs and Eskimo kisses.

Which is why she was surprised to hear her own name pop up in a sea of "sweethearts" and "baby cakes". Emma started up across the table at La Stalla, where her sister's eyebrows were raised in question. "You didn't hear me, did you?" Isabella tutted, "I asked how you are."

Emma ripped apart a chunk of bread. It wasn't every day that Iz visited up from DC, and she sure as hell wouldn't piss on anybody's parade now with her bitterness. She faked a sunny smile, "I'm great."

"I want to help you shop for dorm stuff. Oh my gosh, I saw _the_ cutest spread in Bed Bath & Beyond—"

Her sweet sister rambled on vacantly. So much about Izzy reminded Emma of their mother. The bubbling energy, the sparkling blue eyes, the coifed blonde hair. It was difficult to ignore the pin prickle of jealousy.

"If that's the case, Emma has to help us with the baby room," Jonathan declared.

"Sounds like a fair trade," Isabella agreed. Emma watched as Jon smiled and rested a hand lightly on his wife's rounded belly. She laughed, incredulous. "I'm having a hard time remembering that you're pregnant. Is that bad?"

"Five months later? Little bit, Auntie." Izzy smirked.

Emma smiled sheepishly. Then her nose wrinkled, "Wow, I just realized I'm going to be Auntie Em."

"Don't worry. We won't name our baby Dorothy."

"When do you plan to start baby-proofing the house?" Tom spoke up at the head of the table. He had been moody and dejected all evening, but this was usually a side effect of being in Jon Knightley's presence. "You need outlet plugs," he insisted.

"The baby isn't due until _November_, Tom," Jonathan sighed.

Emma's eyes darted up. She always suspected that Jonathan thought her dad a bit of an idiot. And she _liked_ Jon, she really did. But the disrespect of his own father-in-law always made resentment bubble up in her throat.

"You have to be prepared." Tom argued. "My family doctor recommended one of his associates, Dr. Mayfield. Top notch physician. It's a hike to Mt. Sinai from Washington DC, but I think a child's health is worth _every_ mile."

"Thanks, Daddy." Izzy wrung her napkin. "But um, actually—"

"We already have a pediatrician," said Jonathan.

"Oh." Tom's face fell. "Well."

"Any names picked out yet?" Emma interrupted. Her hands folded delicately under her chin and she smiled. Tom stared back into his plate.

"It's a secret." Izzy's husband smiled. It reminded Emma a little too strongly of Jack, though similarities between the two were few and far between.

The truth was that Jonathan wasn't really anything like Jack, in personality or appearance. Even in high school, Jon had always been taller and broader. The wrestler of the family. Jack was slighter and quicker on his feet. The soccer player. Jonathan started fights. Jack ended them. Jon was aggressive and commanding; Jack was soft-spoken and patient.

Maybe that was why Tom Woodhouse had always favored the younger brother over the older.

Not that Emma anticipated Jack's patience now. He had probably gotten wind of the Ethan Perry debacle and would be harping on her conscience until dessert.

Jack showed up halfway through the entrees, greeted all, ordered a beer and kissed Izzy on the cheek from across the table. Emma decided not to comment on the fact that his hair was sticking up on end.

"No, there was just some disaster at the office," Jack later explained to Tom, hiking up his sleeves. "Somebody tripped the fire alarm and there was an entire rescue mission down in Doc Storage. And by the time I got out of there and through _traffic_," he waved his hand, "trust me, you don't want to hear this."

"We don't mind," Isabella smiled.

"No, it's not important. You guys are here for the first time since The Spanish Inquisition. Can we toast to that?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Seltzer for Izzy."

Izzy laughed.

It wasn't until she was halfway through her pasta (and Tom and Jonathan's heated global warming debate that was more like a competitive ping pong match about Al Gore's integrity) that Jack saw fit to nudge Emma gently.

"Hey," she acknowledged.

"Thanks for ignoring me all night," said Jack.

"Sorry," Emma muttered, "I'm just not looking forward to the gloating."

"…What?"

"You know."

"Know what?"

When she looked up in challenge, Jack's brow crinkled. Emma gaped, "Uh."

"_Uh?_" Jack repeated.

"_Uh_—never mind."

"Oh, come on."

"Forget it. It's not relevant anymore." Emma smiled, feeling a rush of relief. It nearly made her jittery, and she piped up with, "So, what are you gonna order?"

Jack opened his menu; his eyes lowered suspiciously. "I don't know. The gnocchi looks good."

"I know, right? It totally does."

When the dishes had been cleared and a tip was left, all five waited curbside for a cab. Jonathan draped his jacket over Izzy's shoulders and she thanked him with a smile, brushing a windswept curl behind her ear.

"Your sister's glowing," Jack told Emma with a smirk. "Don't you _hate_ that?"

"So clichéd," laughed Emma.

Tom, however, was always trusted to fret. "Isabella looks pale."

"She's standing under the streetlight, Daddy."

"No, no. She looks washed out. Izzy!" Tom started, interrupting Jon and Izzy's intimate moment. "Honey, I have to ask if you're taking your prenatal—"

Emma winced. She turned on her heels, "I feel like Jonathan hates Dad."

"No," Jack shook his head. He thought for a long moment and looked back with a wince, "_Hate_ is such a strong word."

"Nice."

"See, Jon's just…" he paused, "my brother is very easily annoyed. He's the bull in the china shop. _Except_," Jack steered Emma to face her sister, "when it comes to dear Isabella. Never thought I'd see the day when a girl would be able to melt him into a pile of goo. It's kind of disgusting sometimes."

"Yeah, seriously. You left me out in the boonies during appetizers, man," Emma scowled. "It was too much."

Jack laughed, "Sorry about that. Baby Cakes?"

"Sugar Lips."

"Cotton Candykins."

"Haven't heard that one."

"Wait for it, it'll come. Like a recurring nightmare, I swear." At Emma's giggles, Jack grinned and tilted his head. "You know, it's funny. For someone so eager to play matchmaker, you sure are intolerant of PDA."

Emma shrugged, threading her fingers through her long red ponytail. "That's because I like subtlety. Holding hands. Quick glances. Warm smiles. Cute, subdued stuff like that."

"So, basically everything you can read into and be _wrong_ about."

Her gray eyes narrowed dangerously at his accusation. Jack was still all smiles. He kicked a bit of gravel with his sneaker and his grin widened a fraction of an inch. "Yes," Jack admitted. "Yes, of _course_ I know about Ethan Perry. Word gets around."

Emma's mouth fell open. "Meaning Taylor Lau doesn't know how to shut up when her best friend _confides_ in her."

"Pretty much. I do have her on speed dial." A moment later, Jack took offense: "I thought_ I_ was your best friend."

"Not anymore!"

"Nice to know how easily I'm replaced."

"You pretended," Emma accused. "You _pretended_ to be ignorant at dinner."

"Yep."

"_Why?_"

"I don't know. I like messing with you. You get a little crinkle on her forehead right there—"

Emma swatted his hand away. Her cheeks flooded pink with embarrassment, even under the pale light of the lamp post. "Are you going to rub it in?" she asked bitterly.

"I might later. For _funsies_." Jack teased. "Come on," he took her hand as they walked to their cab. "Tell me what happened."

Half an hour later, they were huddled over her coffee table. Emma had changed into sweats and fuzzy socks, a mug of tea in her hands. Jack was crouched in front of her DVD collection, thumbing through the titles.

"—the hard part was trying to explain to Heather what happened," Emma muttered, setting her cup down. "I told her that Ethan had a medical emergency."

"Like what," Jack smiled over his shoulder, "explosive diarrhea?"

Emma snorted, "No, I said his grandmother was in the hospital. And she believed me, because she always believes me, but this time it made me feel like a bad person."

"You're not a bad person." Jack corrected. "But I like that you slapped him. A lot of people would envy you that."

"Tell me about it." Emma shuddered, "_Ugh_, what a creep! Why did I ever think he was such a good guy?"

Jack shrugged. "Because you wanted to. Plus, Ethan Perry is a very charming actor."

"But you warned me."

"I did."

"Sorry," she grudgingly admitted. "I'm a very stubborn girl."

"No shit."

"Can we be friends again?" Emma offered her hand.

Jack reached over the table and shook. "Were we ever _not_ friends?"

Nobody said anything more for a good few moments, as Emma turned on the DVD player and Jack popped in _Meet the Parents_. He turned off the lights and sat in Tom's favorite armchair as the menu appeared on the screen. Emma saw fit to mention Ethan Perry's ultimate revenge, and how he had left them while dangling his keys in her face. In the middle of a department store. Smack dab in NYC. With no shortage of cabs for miles.

"What an idiot," laughed Jack.

"Right?" Emma hugged her pillow; she cocked her head at the screen and her shoulders slumped. "Damn, Oliver and Taylor's wedding is next weekend."

"Got a dress picked out, Maid of Honor?"

"Well, _duh_. But I chalked Heather up to expecting an invitation from _Ethan_." She buried her face in the pillow and Jack laughed when he looked over to find a mass of auburn hair spilling over a sofa cushion. "What do I _do_?" came her muffled wail.

"Don't sweat it. I'll be Heather's date."

Emma shot up. Her gray eyes were huge and ecstatic. "Oh my gosh." She leapt off of the couch, "_Really?_"

Jack shrugged and fast-forwarded through a preview. "Sure."

A moment later, Emma's arms were tight around his neck. "Thank you, thank you, _thank_ you! Jack, I love you."

"Liar," laughed Jack. "Please get off me. You just made me swallow my gum."

* * *

**Author's Note:** :) We're picking up the pace next chapter at the Weston wedding! Expect new characters. And snubbing. And heroics. You know, general _Emma_ deliciousness. Thank you for reading and reviewing, guys, you all seriously make my day.


	10. Roses, Blitzkrieg and Coffee

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter Ten: _Roses, Blitzkrieg and Coffee_

Taylor and Oliver were to marry in a ceremony that was simple, charming and elegant. The guest list stewed together a concoction of loved ones and friends who gathered in the same pews that all four Weston boys had endured many fitful Sunday mornings in, frowning in boredom at their prayer books and tugging at their ties. St. James was a pleasant little church in Highbury, New Jersey, and its fluttering sentimental value indulged Emma's imagination a little too much.

"Just think," she sighed in raptures, "your children will go to _services_ here, the church Oliver grew up in, the church you got _married_ in—"

"Honey, _please_," Taylor cautioned, fixing the white ruched train of her wedding gown. "We live in the city and we're both pretty apathetic. We're marrying in this church to please his parents. I'm talking waterworks, front pew."

Emma smile grew sour and she crossed her arms over her chest. "Cynic."

"Romantic," Taylor accused. "Damn, we should trade. It _is_ my wedding day, after all." At Emma's sniffle, her best friend shoved her, "Jesus, pull yourself together. Think of your mascara."

"Sorry. You're right." The veil was lowered and a ribboned bouquet of pink and white roses was handed over. Emma rested her hands on the bride's shoulders and beamed at how heartbreakingly beautiful and grown-up her best friend looked. "Oh, _Tay_."

"No crying."

"_No_ crying."

Taylor's smile was bright and confident. She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. "Let's do this. Out you go."

Emma grinned at her, smoothed a lock of hair, positioned her own bouquet and stepped across the threshold and onto the aisle, where organ music and dozens of turned faces met her.

She saw Oliver first. No, actually, she saw Oliver's hair first. The shocking crest of red was hard to ignore, followed by his wider than wide smile. His two groomsmen were at his side, each with a tucked-in pink rose in a front jacket pocket. Taylor's other bridesmaid, Kat, was stepping gracefully by the altar, the shimmer of her baby blue dress catching the light.

Emma passed the blur of guests and somehow forgot to hunt for Heather, Jack and Nora; they were probably nestled someplace obscure, like to the right, way in the back. Wedding ceremonies weren't always guaranteed to be short.

She pushed the less-than-encouraging thought away and joined her fellow bridesmaid next to the altar. Just in time, too, as everybody suddenly rose and the organ burst into sweeping melody. And there was the gorgeous bride herself.

Who Emma had _every_ intention of watching, of course.

Until she caught sight of Oliver's second groomsman and her mouth dropped open stupidly.

_Damn_.

This wasn't to say that Nate Weston (best man) didn't cut a nice tux, too. He did. But the man to his left was all strategically tousled dark blond hair and sharp angular cheekbones and deep brown eyes and when he _smiled_ his gloriously dimpled smile, Emma's stomach lurched and twisted and lurched again.

Groomsman #2's eyes flickered to hers and the corners of his lips turned up in a friendly and unassuming hello. Emma gawked. And not discreetly.

And this was how Beautiful Dimpled Future Husband Boy made Emma Lee Woodhouse miss a good 2/3rds of the ceremony that had solidified Taylor Weston nee Lau's marital happiness. At the end, she wouldn't have been able to tell you anything about it. The priest could have tap danced in electric blue fishnets and Emma would have just stared longingly past him.

Nine rows back, her friends were skeptical.

"Emma's cruising a groomsman," snorted Nora, popping a skittle into her mouth. "And he is _fine_."

"Which one?" Jack leaned close.

"The one that looks like Brad Pitt, Jude Law and Johnny Depp's illegitimate threesome lovechild after a drunken hot steamy night in Vegas."

"Oh, okay." He tilted his head. "_Day-umm_."

"Right?" Nora sighed. "Hey. Want a skittle?"

"I actually just ate, but thanks."

* * *

Lucas Churchill.  
Lucas Churchill was his name.  
Lucas Churchill had to be hers.  
Lucas Churchill officially had a stalker.

Emma set to work on the stats.

"Gay?"

"Nope."

"Single?"

"Yep."

"Hygenic?"

"Looks that way."

"Where's he from?"

"Los Angeles. UCLA."

"Relation to Oliver?"

"Godson. His mother was Oliver's best friend in high school."

"Aw."

"_I know!_"

"Thanks, Kat," Emma nudged her fellow bridesmaid. "Love ya, girl."

"Anytime, sweetie," Kat winked. She set her glass of Chardonnay down and met her boyfriend chatting with the band setting up on stage. Emma giggled when she saw that Nora Goddard had already gotten chummy with the bass player. She had a notorious thing for musicians. Jack had once joked that a man could be a keyboardist and she would still go for him. Which, of course, had launched an entire hour long discussion on the sex appeal of each band member.

"My, don't we look pretty."

Emma turned at the voice, and smiled widely at the groom. "Hey, Ollie," she kissed his cheek. "How does it feel to be a married man?"

"Pretty damn good!" Oliver laughed. "But I think I lost my wife."

"Touching up in the ladies' room. Bet you $10."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Oops, just kidding. There she is," pointed Emma.

Taylor wound her arms around her husband's waist from behind; Oliver grinned and twirled her back. Emma smiled. They were just so dang _cute_. And perfectly complimenting, too. Oliver and Taylor Weston were a beautifully opposite couple. They were perfection itself.

"I ditched my veil," said Taylor with a shrug. Dark bell curls had escaped from her braided bun, framing her face. "Is that bad?"

"Does that mean I can take off my bow tie?" Oliver's hands inched towards his collar.

"_No!_ It completes your look."

"Oh."

"Maybe later," Taylor compromised with a quick kiss. Oliver was all melted butter again.

As Taylor Weston adjusted the neckline of her strapless ivory dress, the bridal party was summoned over in front of an array of gorgeous flowers teeming over the first table. The photographer unscrewed his lens, hunting for an alternate inside his camera bag. This gave the women a chance to smooth the skirts of their dresses; the men, to straighten skewed bow ties and wrinkled tuxedo jackets.

"The things I wear for you, man," complained Nathan Weston to his brother.

Oliver laughed, "Nothing compared to your 21st birthday party, Nate."

"Aw, don't bring that up. Luke's going to think I'm _indecent_."

"Sorry—my mind's already made up about you," apologized Lucas Churchill. He smiled a careless boyish smile and Emma stared again, four people down. Only this time, her gawking didn't pass unnoticed. Taylor arched a delicate eyebrow just as the photographer framed his shot and commanded, "_Smile!_"

Five snapshots later, the group disbanded. Emma picked up her clutch from the table behind her.

"Man, I _still_ see stars."

She jumped up, cheeks flooding red. Beautiful Boy—Lucas Churchill—was smiling down at her. His grin momentarily wavered. "The flash," explained Lucas quickly. "I'm sorry. Maybe that was vague." He shifted his weight awkwardly, which Emma thought was _adorable_. "I'm Luke."

_Yeah, you are._

"Hi, I'm Emma."

"Oh, right—Maid of Honor," Luke smiled warmly. "Is it as prestigious as it seems?"

"Little bit more, actually."

"_Really?_" he challenged, folding his arms. "Maybe we should get you a tiara or something."

"Maybe we should," agreed Emma.

He laughed and she smiled, genuinely thrilled. And a little bit worried. Emma could not remember ever liking a guy this much and this quickly. Just as she was _sure_ that Luke was about to ask her for a first dance (a cover of Frank Sinatra's "Night and Day" had conveniently begun), her attention was suddenly diverted three tables down, where Heather Smith was standing rigidly.

In front of Heather stood Ethan Perry. Gone was his friendly smile in favor of a smug little smirk. He was introducing her to his date, a twiggy blonde who smiled less-than-sincerely. And Heather, poor Heather, looked as if she had just swallowed a handful of marbles. Her blue eyes were saucer wide and horrified.

"Oh no," Emma covered her mouth.

"Are you okay?" asked Luke with concern. His eyes followed hers. "Is that your friend?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna—sorry, but I have to—"

"It's no problem," Luke stepped aside.

She smiled apologetically and approached Ethan and Heather's secluded awkward party.

Ethan's grin, once charming, now seemed reptilian. "Oh look, it's Emma Woodhouse. Isn't this perfect?" he asked his date. "I can introduce you to _everybody_ now. Emma, this is my girlfriend, Abigail Hawkins."

The twiggy blonde smiled. It looked a little more genuine this time. "It's _so_ nice to meet you! Emma, isn't it?"

"It is. And likewise."

There was an uncomfortable, pillowy silence despite the music.

"Honey," Abigail's hand suddenly flitted gently to her date's elbow. Heather stared at it as if it were a viral pathogen. "You promised me a dance. I'm going to request a song." She turned to Emma with a tittering, melodious little laugh: "I can't dance to _oldies_."

Emma smiled back mirthlessly.

"Okay, babe. Let's go," said Ethan.

Abigail waved to Emma and turned towards the stage. She watched as they weaved through the dancing couples, Ethan's hand grazing his date's backside. Next to Emma, Heather had drawn in a big gulp of air.

"Girlfriend," she repeated shakily. "_Girlfriend_."

"Heather, sweetie, I swear. I didn't know he would even be here."

"He has a girlfriend," Heather cocked her head, shell-shocked. "A girlfriend who completely _snubbed_ me, too. Oh my God. Is he—is he _smirking_ at me?"

Emma glanced towards the dance floor, but Ethan Perry had lowered his eyes by then. Still, a ghost of a sneer was unmistakable. The only misconception was as to who it was directed at. It was most likely delivered for _her_ sake, and not Heather's. Emma winced.

She had accidentally left out that part of her explanation to Heather a few days ago. "Ethan Perry is a creep who wanted _me_ the whole time" was ditched for the now ironically half-truth that was "I misinterpreted Ethan Perry's intentions and I'm so sorry, sweetie, because apparently he's interested in somebody else."

Abigail Hawkins.

"She's pretty," simpered Heather.

"Not really," admitted Emma. "_You're_ pretty."

Heather paid no mind to her recently curled hair or gorgeously fitted navy dress. Her mood had sunken into her shoes.

And her date was nowhere to be found. Jack, apparently, had continuously ducked out of the reception to answer calls from his brother; Jonathan was a horrible driver and needed constant directions on the car ride back to Washington DC from New York City. Emma cursed his willingness to be so helpful all the time—Jack was needed _here_, now.

Her male tolerance was running dangerously low.

"You know," Emma said, "I hate guys. I really do. _All_ of them. Even the nice ones. Because you think they're reliable, right? But they're not. They're just not."

Heather was now staring over her friend's shoulder. "Uh, Emma—"

"It's like, why do I even bother?" continued Emma, fitfully brushing back her red bangs. "Cute ones are probably assholes too. I should be a lesbian. Let's be lesbians."

"_Emma._"

"What?"

"Turn around."

She spun around on her heels and came face-to-face with Luke Churchill, who blinked and smiled at her. "Hi again."

"Oh." Her face grew hot. "Hi."

Luke cleared his throat. "Don't want to interrupt."

"Oh, no, don't worry about it." Emma swallowed a lump of embarrassment.

"I just came over here to ask if you wanted to dance."

"Sure. Yeah. _Yes_. I'd love to." Emma fidgeted. She introduced Luke and Heather to each other. Then she followed Luke out to the middle of the dance floor, being careful not to step on the blue train of her dress. Luke smiled patiently, "That's a pretty color on you."

"Thanks. Taylor's too generous. She didn't make her bridesmaids wear pink."

Luke seemed puzzled. "You don't like pink?"

"No, I do. But redheads look godawful in pink."

"I'm sure you'd pull it off," he complimented.

"Nope—Ariel the Little Mermaid couldn't do it and neither can I."

Luke Churchill laughed. They danced a comfortable distance apart, and Emma reminded herself not to be creepy and stare at him. Or worse, smell him. _Damn, you smell good_. Instead, she focused on the lilting Cole Porter song and looked out past Luke's shoulder. Heather was sulking at Table #5, eyes glued to Ethan and Abigail. Jack suddenly crouched down beside her.

Emma watched Jack lean close and murmur some joke in Heather's ear. She cracked up for what must have been the first time all evening. Jack grinned and led her away from the table. He shimmied and moonwalked to make Heather giggle again. The brunette snorted and muffled her laughter with one hand slapped over the other. Emma found herself grinning. This was why she needed Jack to remedy the situation.

"You're giggling," observed Lucas.

Emma smiled demurely. "Sorry."

"Don't be—it's cute."

She blushed, and then kicked herself.

_Emma Woodhouse, what is wrong with you? I have lost all respect for you in light of your giggling girlish ways._

Surprisingly, Emma's internal voice sounded a lot like Jack.

* * *

5AM. Bette's Diner. Daybreak dotting the skyline.

Four friends crowded around a corner table over bagels, coffee and (at the very least) concentrated OJ.

Taylor Weston's once beautiful hair was ruined now in absolute disarray. Her eyeliner was only slightly smudged, and she hugged a fleece hoodie around the embroidered white bodice of her wedding dress. Oliver Weston's red head was nestled into her shoulder, and she rubbed wide comforting circles on his back. "Wake up," she hummed.

"You leave for your _honeymoon_ tonight," Jack acknowledged. He sat, awake and wired, in the booth. The tuxedo jacket and tie had been long scrapped. A loose white dress shirt, sleeves hiked, and disheveled dark hair was all the _fancy_ Jack Knightley could muster at so early an hour. He took a quick gulp of his coffee. "No, seriously. How wild is that? You guys are going to _Italy_."

Oliver's head peeped up. "It's pretty wild. I'll appreciate it more when I'm actually awake."

Taylor grinned, "We partied hard at our wedding, hon. Up top."

The newlyweds high-fived.

"I love you so much," Oliver sighed wistfully.

Emma giggled. She happened to be drinking OJ at the same time, and it bubbled and frothed out of her straw and gushed over the rim of the glass. Jack sneered. "_Gross_."

"_Shuddup._" Emma had also surrendered to a state of undress. Her auburn hair fell like a curtain over one shoulder, a flash of light shimmery blue peeking out from under her gray zip-up. Remarkably though, her mascara had lasted both the ceremony _and_ reception. At this revelation, she began giggling. Again.

"What's _with_ you, Chuckles?"

"Everything is funnier at five in the morning," explained Taylor.

"That's true."

"Hey," Emma piped up. Jack's green eyes darted up skeptically across the table. "Thanks for the save with Heather. She needed rescuing after the Ethan snub. And you really helped her enjoy herself. Which is important. It's _important_, you know?"

"How much did she drink?" Jack murmured to Taylor.

"Enough," laughed the bride.

"No, _really_," Emma touched his arm briefly, "it was a non-shitty thing to do, Jack. It was a _good_ thing to do. You were like a knight. A shiny one. Knight. _Knight_ley. Ahaha."

"Oh, Jesus."

Oliver chuckled, drumming his knuckles on the tabletop. "You might have to take her home, Jack."

Jack rubbed the stubble on his chin. "_Cool_."

"You have to endure an entire cab ride with her," Taylor warned, sympathetic.

"_I met a beautiful boy today,_" Emma sung obliviously, fingers wiggling in the air. "_Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!_"

"That's nice, honey."

"Luke Churchill and I are getting married. He asked me for my _number_."

"Yeah, I saw you two dancing," said Oliver. "You're a pretty damn attractive couple, I have to say. I don't know why I didn't introduce you earlier."

Emma let out a delighted squeak that morphed into a squeal. Jack and Taylor both winced; it was synchronized.

"We're going to have _super_ attractive babies," she declared.

Jack set down his styrofoam cup and laughed, "Super _magnetic_ babies?"

"No. Like, _Brangelina_ babies. Shiloh Jolie-_Pitt_ babies."

"Ah."

"_Ah_."

Jack shrugged on his jacket. "I'mma take her home now."

"Godspeed, Jacko."


	11. You're Slurring Your Speech

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter Eleven: _You're So Cute When You're Slurring Your Speech_

7AM, on principle, just sucks.

Though Emma's morning condition seemed to sweeten the deal altogether. She woke up with great difficulty, swung her legs to the side of the bed and cradled her head in her hands. _Pounding headache, front and center, feel like dying_.

"Damn."

She was thankful that her father hadn't been home that weekend to see her clamber into their condo giggly and drunk. The irresponsibility would've given him heart palpitations and she would've died of shame.

_Not_ letting down Daddy. Always a top priority.

Raking a hand through knotty auburn curls, Emma squinted against the garish sunlight filtering through the blinds and quickly snapped them shut. Fabric rustled in response.

She cracked open a blind. Jack was huddled on her sofa, head pillowed against his folded arms. He snored softly, stopped, and turned. Emma smothered a grin.

"Hold that thought," she whispered, pulling his blanket up to his shoulders.

The sound of her footsteps against creaking floorboards woke him. Jack jolted into a seated position. His hair was sticking up on end and his eyes were half open. He yawned and rubbed his face, grimacing at the stubble.

Emma reappeared in the doorway with a bottle of Advil and a tall glass of water from the tap. Her red hair had been gathered into a high ponytail, face washed clean of all smudged makeup.

"Hey," she said.

"Hi," he said.

"Did I pass out?"

"More or less," Jack half smiled.

Emma winced and rubbed the back of her neck. "Thanks for staying," she said genuinely. "You could have slept in the bed, you know."

Jack looked down at his hands. "That's okay."

"Um," Emma shifted her weight, "that's your tux in the bathroom, right?"

"Yeah, I borrowed some clothes from your dad." Jack tugged at the collar of his large t-shirt. _Mo's Fishing_ was emblazoned on the front pocket.

"No, no, that's fine," assured Emma. She folded her arms, "It's just that, uh, your tux…well, it sort of smells. _Really_ bad."

Jack's green eyes flickered up to her gray ones. He smirked, "Yes, that would be _your_ doing, thanks very much."

"What?"

"Well, you puked on me in the cab."

Her hands flew to her mouth. "I did not!"

"Nope, you did," Jack laughed, stretching. "What you're smelling in there is too much liquor on an empty stomach. Oh, plus some detergent, 'cause I tried to rub it out. Much good that did."

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Jack."

"It's cool."

"It's a rental, isn't it?"

"Mm-hmm."

Emma winced, "I'll pay for dry cleaning."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Sorry!"

"Shut _up_, Emma."

"Sorry."

Jack glared. Emma laughed.

"How fares the headache?" he asked dryly. Emma shrugged and shook two tablets out of the Advil bottle. Jack interrupted, "Whoa, whoa, _whoa_. You gotta eat first."

Emma narrowed her eyes, "_Nuh-uh_."

Jack snorted and stood up. He put the bottle down and took her hand, "Come on, Pukey. Time to get some scrambled eggs in you."

"Ew, _food_," she whined, trudging obediently behind him.

"I know," Jack smiled, "I know."

* * *

Heather wore tragedy very dutifully. When Emma visited her later that day, the brunette had pulled her hair high into a ponytail, somberly dressed head to toe in a black hoodie, black leggings and black ballet flats.

"Has there been a murder?" teased Emma.

Miss Smith, however, looked completely serious, "We will purge today."

"Purge?" repeated Emma, setting down a fruit basket on the kitchen counter.

"_Purge_," Heather gave an elegant sweep of her arm, "to rid the body of all things negative. All things toxic to the spirit and the heart."

_Purge_, Emma thought, _to rid the stomach of all things alcohol_. _On Jack's shirt_. She winced and covered a giggle with a cough.

Emma looked contrastingly summery compared to her companion in a bright yellow sundress. She made an effort. After breakfast, Emma had showered, scrubbed her bedroom and bathroom and laundered her sheets. Then she brushed her teeth. Then she brushed her teeth _again_.

The girls sat at Heather's kitchen table, and Emma watched in silent awe as her friend emptied out her giant, colorful LeSportSac bag. Out toppled a wallet, a cell phone, a tube of Maybelline mascara and a battered iPod shuffle. But also a wad of old receipts, a lock of ribboned blonde hair, a band-aid and a crumpled fun-size pack of Reese's Pieces.

"What's all this?" Emma asked.

"_This_," Heather swept her hands again for dramatic emphasis, "is that which must be purged."

"Should I light some ceremonial candles?"

Heather's eyes locked, steely and mirthless.

"Sorry," Emma cleared her throat and forced herself into composure. "Go on, sweetie."

"Do you remember this?" Heather held up an old receipt. "Do you?"

"Uh. Should I?"

Her chin quivered, "Oh, Emma. This is the _receipt_, remember? The one Ethan gave me so I could throw out my gum. There wasn't a trashcan in the cab, and he took this out of his pocket for me."

Emma noticed a little round pink ball nestled inside the paper. Her nose wrinkled, "The gum's still in there, isn't it?"

"Yes. But no more!" Heather dunked it into a giant Hefty trash bag. She exhaled evenly and picked up the Reese's Pieces pack. "And _look_. The Reese's Pieces Ethan bought at the 7-Eleven."

"How did you get that?"

"It doesn't matter," Heather said quickly. "But begone!" _Whoosh_, into the trash.

Emma covered her mouth with her hand and nodded her head gravely.

"Oh, this band-aid," Heather sniffled at the folded square in her palm, "this salve of _wounds_. How it could've bandaged my heart, if only it were big enough. But _no_, it stayed around Ethan's kneecap for two days. And then that afternoon at Macy's…I watched it flutter to the floor. My heart, Emma, my _heart_ seized at his pain."

Emma bit her lip. "Yes. Horrible." _Unsanitary_.

The lock of hair was held up.

"Heather, you didn't—"

"The things we do for love," Heather shook her head sadly. "But all must end eventually. And so," she swept the pile off the edge of the table and into the trash bag, "I have _detoxed_."

Emma took Heather's hand. "I'm proud of you."

Heather's chin quivered again, and she quickly dabbed at her eyes. "Will my heart recover? How do we recover from being _in love_, Emma?"

"You will. I promise."

Heather let out a shallow sigh. She got up and collected the bag, throwing it into the waste basket. "Do you want some tea?"

"Sure." Emma stretched out her hands and drummed her knuckles on the tabletop. She looked at her friend's back sadly, "I'm sorry, hon. I hope the reception yesterday wasn't too difficult to get through."

"Well, it was pretty horrible," Heather admitted, brushing a dark strand of hair behind her ear. She steeped a tea bag into the china pot and smiled over her shoulder, "But then Jack rescued me."

Emma laughed, "Yes, he's an interesting dance partner."

"He's _wonderful_." Heather set two mugs on the table, "People aren't as nice as him. It's not that common."

"Yeah," Emma murmured, tracing the rim of the cup with a finger. "He's a good guy."

"No girlfriend, right?"

She looked up with a start. "No. Why?"

"It's just surprising, that's all," Heather shrugged, taking a seat. She sipped her tea pensively. "He's good-looking and intelligent, sweet and funny. I wouldn't expect him to stay single for too long."

"Jack doesn't date," Emma said automatically. "At least not anymore." She started to laugh, "Jack's just… no. Some people are totally better off on their own. I can't picture him with _anybody_. Except his dog, she's a sweetheart."

Heather grinned, "Guess you're right."

"Oh, I am," she raised her cup. "Trust me on this. It would be _weird_."

Heather shrugged and poured the teapot.

"Now," Emma smiled at her mischievously, "Ethan Perry's off the table. Time to go hunting for somebody new."

"_Aw_," whined Heather. She put up her hood and nestled her face into her arms, dejected. "Emma!"

"Give me time. Just give me time."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Emma Woodhouse's mood seemed to improve with each block. She perched her aviator shades up and window-shopped on 5th Avenue, cocking her head at a pair of strappy Michael Kors stilettos on display. "How tragically Carrie Bradshaw am _I_," she grinned at her reflection. The difference was that SJP could actually _walk_ in towering heels; Emma had yet to perfect this stomping art. She pressed her nose forlornly against the glass instead.

Her cell phone started buzzing and, expecting her father's call from DC, Emma automatically flipped it open. "I miss you!" she sang.

There was a pause and then a deep laugh, "_Wow, we should dance more often._"

Her face suddenly grew hot. "Oh. Uh."

"_Lucas Churchill_," said the voice warmly.

She winced, "I'm embarrassed."

"_Are you blushing?_"

"A lot," Emma laughed.

"_You're cute_."

She grinned, trying to ignore the butterflies that raged through her stomach. Man, she really liked this boy. "So," Emma teased, "couldn't wait the 24 hour lag, huh?"

"_You caught me_," Luke sighed, "_I hate those rules anyway. Is it socially inept of me to call you within like, twelve hours of our acquaintance?_"

"I think you're more of a man for it, Mr. Churchill."

"_I appreciate the compliment, Emma. I'm going to try to live up to it now and ask you to dinner_."

She couldn't contain her delight. Suddenly, the stilettos in the window seemed to have a perfect reason to feel the city air.

* * *

**Author's Note**: So, I love you guys. For realsies.


	12. Stop & Stare

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter Twelve:_ Stop & Stare_

Reason would have you suspect that Emma had spent the last nineteen years perfecting the art of puppy dog pouts and coaxing whines capable of worming through the barbed wired skepticism that protected Tom Woodhouse's heart.

Unfortunately, this was not so.

"_Daddy_," Emma whined, slamming the front door shut. "Please, _please_ let me go!" She harrumphed and threw her purse down onto the steps.

Tom gave an elegant little bow and smirked. "No." He put his wallet and keys on the end table and disappeared into the kitchen to search the fridge.

Emma stalked after him angrily, ducking in front of him. "But Luke's a really nice boy!"

"Don't care."

"He's a gentleman!"

"And I'm a duke."

"_Dad_."

"Yes, Emma?" Tom looked over his shoulder.

Her lower lip jutted out. "Please."

Tom smiled and pinched her cheek. "No."

"But I already said yes!"

"Then call back and say no."

"I bought _the_ perfect shoes!"

"Too bad."

Emma wanted to scream.

As an overly concerned parent, her father's reasons were just. After all, who was Tom to know anything about this Lucas Churchill? He may have been old-fashioned, but this patriarch believed in classic social cues—he had to know the young man, _and_ his family, _and_ his values before giving permission for a date.

_Permission_. She nearly squeaked in defiance.

Tom had been in such a chipper mood after DC, too. Emma had banked on it, only to watch as it completely backfired in her face. She glowered as Tom removed a loaf, cold cuts and mustard from the fridge, rolling up his sleeves so that he could make a sandwich.

"Hand me a butter knife, would you, Emma?"

She let it clatter violently on the countertop.

"Temper, sweetie," Tom tutted, removing a slice of whole grain.

"_Hmph_."

"Tell you what," he suggested, "why don't we ask for Jack's input? He met this boy at the wedding, yes?"

"Yes, but," Emma sputtered, "Daddy, Jack is _hardly_ an authority—"

"But I trust Jack. He has good judgment."

"And _I_ don't?" she raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, Emma," Tom laughed. He thought for a moment, "No."

"I don't believe this," she muttered.

"What I mean to say is that you _normally_ do," he said reassuringly, "but this a _boy_ we're talking about. The playing field is a little bit different, even for those who are normally sensible."

"Thanks for the faith, Daddy."

"Youbetcha."

Jack Knightley stopped by an hour later to deliver some billing reports. As Tom shuffled documents in the den, Emma stared at the two of them across the table. Her best friend glanced up and chuckled, "Bee in your bonnet, Emma?"

She ignored him pointedly and looked at her father. "Dad. _Ask_ already."

"What? _Oh_," Tom folded his reading glasses and snapped the case shut. "Right—Jack, you met Lucas Churchill at the Weston wedding, yes?"

"I did," Jack shoved his hands in his pockets. "He was one of Oliver's groomsmen."

"What did you think of him?"

"What did _I_ think of him?" Emma watched as Jack's eyes flickered to hers and back. She involuntarily held her breath. "In my honest opinion?"

"As always."

There was a heavy pause.

"Luke seems like a good kid," Jack finally said. Emma's shoulders relaxed. "Very polite, always praised. He's Oliver's godson—to be honest, he talks about Churchill all the time."

"I don't know him at all," Tom explained, gesturing to Emma with his glasses case, "But _this_ one has just been asked out on a date and I needed to make sure of this boy's character before I let her go skipping off with some charming womanizer who will leave her stranded or, God forbid, take advantage of her. Or worse, get her involved in European trafficking. Have you ever seen that Liam Neeson movie, _Taken_?"

"Can't say I have, Tom."

"It's was terrifying. It was on Starz the other night. It's On Demand."

"Oh yeah? I heard it was good."

"Yes, but _truly_ harrowing. If my daughter was ever kidnapped, I wouldn't have the expertise of a retired government official to find her in some broken down brothel in Paris being doped up on heroin—"

"_Dad_." Emma passed a hand over her eyes.

Tom cleared his throat, "So, do you think I should let her go?"

Jack shrugged, "I don't see why not. Then again, it's not like I have any credo here. You're her father. I'm the creepy apprentice and part-time best friend."

"_Ser_iously," Emma agreed.

Her father stared at the two of them skeptically. In the end, though, it was Emma's unwavering pout that tipped Tom off of the iceberg. When he consented, her squeal let off like a helium balloon burst free, zipping across the room in a flurry of colors. Jack promised Tom that he would stop by around nine in the evening once he was finished the last of the reports and Tom thanked him and scheduled a poker night with Doctor Katz and Mayfield.

* * *

Oh, the damned Michael Kors heels.

But Emma had wired it down to a science. She stuffed a pair of flats into her purse and made the change swift and inconspicuous. Plus, it worked well with her green floral dress and black cardigan. As Lucas and Emma strolled around the streets after dinner (Italian, of course) he couldn't help but allude to her subtle change in height.

"Is it me," Luke asked wryly, "or did I just grow four inches?"

She stood on her tiptoes. "Well, you _did_ eat your vegetables at dinner. Well done, you."

He laughed and took her hand. "You're a funny girl."

Emma grinned, "Thanks." She stared at the sidewalk as they walked, kicking a pebble along. They passed a street musician busking and Luke leaned over to drop a couple bills into his guitar case. They stopped to listen appreciatively.

"Fender?"

"Gibson," smiled the musician.

"Beautiful," Luke whistled.

Once they had passed the block, Emma asked, "Do you play?"

"Yeah," he shrugged, "I used to. Don't laugh at me, I was part of a band about three years ago."

"No way!" Emma smiled, "That's great. What genre of music?"

"_Very_ folksy and sometimes piano-rock," Lucas laughed, "I know, it's a little incongruous. But it was so much fun. Didn't work out though. We played a bunch of gigs for fun and almost got signed. But then I had a _huge_ tiff with the lead singer. It got a little ugly, too."

"Why, what happened?"

He shrugged, "She was a pretty bankable member of the group—gorgeous voice, played the piano beautifully. You get artistic differences and disagreements, and of course all the other bandmates side with her. Then _poof_, the band breaks up."

"Oh."

"Plus, she was my girlfriend at the time."

"_Ouch_."

"Right?" Luke waved his hand, "This was before I moved to California—we were in Boston." He glanced up and smiled, and Emma thought he had the prettiest eyes. "Forget about it. It happened so long ago. Before UCLA."

"When are you going back to Los Angeles?"

"I'm here for the whole summer."

"Oh, okay."

Lucas stopped in front of a bakery. He grinned at her, "Oh, _okay_? God, Emma, I thought you would be at _least_ a little more excited than that. Especially since I'm staying at the Westons and you can pretty much see me whenever you want."

Emma drummed a finger against her mouth. "Yeah, see, I think that's a little presumptuous of you."

"Yeah?" Luke crossed his arms. "How so?"

"Well, for instance, it's like you _assume_ that this date, or meeting you in general, is the highlight of my summer so far."

"You mean it isn't?"

"Nope," Emma inspected a strand of her red hair absently. "In fact, I'm going to a U2 concert in August. You've been beaten."

"Bono always wins," Luke's shoulders slumped. "It's a shame too, because I consider _you_ a highlight."

Emma fought her blush and said cheekily, "Only because _you're_ not seeing Bono this summer."

"Well yeah, there's that."

She laughed and Lucas smiled.

They got to her building and lingered outside near the stoop as Emma fiddled with her keys. "Well, this is me. Thank you for dinner."

Luke looked up at her from two steps below, hands buried in his pockets. He smiled his adorable little smile, dimples and all, and Emma couldn't stop the words from bursting out of her mouth: "I make a _mean_ pot of tea."

"Do you?" Lucas asked, rocking back on the heels of his feet. "Is this an invitation?"

Emma stared down at her Honolulu Flip-Flop keychain, mostly to let her long auburn hair cover her cheeks. "Uh, possibly. I don't know. Yes."

"I would love to."

At least the Woodhouse residence was spick and span. Emma always did pride herself in stress-cleaning. And it was empty—this was also very good. As Emma showed Luke around, they eventually found themselves in the kitchen. She put the kettle on and hunted inside the cabinets for the sugar bowl, talking about CNN of all things. And then infomercials. And then, finally, back to the situation at hand.

"Am I less of a man if I ask for milk in my tea?" Luke rolled up his sleeves. "Will you post this on Facebook?"

Emma snorted, "Only because you're being so _touchy_ about it."

"Well, my mom used to put milk in my tea _all_ the time. I kind of hated it, but it was all I would drink after she passed away." Luke paused and shook his head. "Of course, you needed to know the entire family backstory to it. Maybe I'll give you my autobiography and family lineage, too."

"No, it's okay." Emma hopped up to sit next to him on the counter that divided the living room from the kitchen. She kicked her bare feet against it rhythmically. "Do you miss her?"

Luke shrugged, "It's been ten years. But yeah, I think things would have been a lot easier for me if she had been around." Emma looked down, plucking a stray thread from the hem of her dress. He nudged her gently and murmured, "What about you?"

Emma chewed on her lower lip in thought. "Yeah," she said softly. "It hasn't been easy. I was little, but it was painful. Things are much better now. But it still hurts. It's just kind of dulled, you know?"

"I do."

"But I'm still very lucky. I have a _great_ dad," Emma beamed, "and an angel of a sister, and two very close and incredible best friends."

"And Bono," added Lucas with a grin.

"_And_ Bono," agreed Emma.

Luke laughed under his breath and stared out across the room, scanning the television screen and DVD collection. Emma stared with him, listening and not listening to the steady hum of the tea kettle. Her thoughts were scrambled. He leaned back a little and his hand grazed hers. "Sorry."

"No," Emma cleared her throat, embarrassed. "It's okay."

Luke eventually slid off of the counter and found two mugs in the cupboard. He set the pair out in front of them. "Look at me, being resourceful in your kitchen."

"Very big of you, Sir."

"I thank you. May I help you down?"

Emma gave him her hand regally. "You may." With that, she hopped down to her feet and laughed, cornered at the counter. Luke grinned, "Not as graceful as you probably hoped."

"Nope! I'm afraid not."

Lucas didn't immediately answer—he simply stared at her for awhile. Emma felt her face grow hot, especially when his hand cradled her cheek.

The kiss was a little awkward at first. _Definitely_ not as passionate as in certain girlish daydreams. But it was nice and he smelled nice and Emma felt a nice, satisfying surge of butterflies that didn't exactly live up to prior expectations, but that was okay. Instead, she chose to use the time to focus on the fact that their height difference was probably ideal; also, to contemplate whether or not their names could be morphed together like TomKat. _Lemma? Sounds like lemur. Unless you go with L'Emma, that sounds lovely and French._

Under the haze of thoughts and the bubbling whine of the kettle, the sound of the lock turning in the front door didn't grasp Emma's attention as quickly as it usually did. So Jack, reading glasses perched, papers in his hands and hair slightly disheveled, got to witness the end of a liplock for about 2.5 seconds before Luke and Emma jumped apart as if electrocuted.

"Oh, hi!"

"Hey, man."

The _gush_ of eager politeness.

Jack piled the papers on the end table and said carefully, "Hi. What—"

"We were just making tea," Emma said quickly. Her face flushed a second later, knowing _exactly_ how Jack would misconstrue this and what he might say to potentially embarrass her at the perfect opportunity.

But Jack just kept his lips pursed.

Lucas excused himself, kissed Emma on the cheek and thanked her for the _nice evening_. A part of her hopes plummeted with these words. Something told her that had Jack _not_ made his unwelcome entrance, Emma would have had herself an immediate promise of a second date. Now they would have to play phone-tag. She was about to call Jack out on it, but he was being uncharacteristically quiet.

"Are you okay?" Emma asked, taking off her earrings.

"Yeah," Jack murmured, scanning the paperwork.

"Busy day?"

"You could say that."

Emma nodded, awkwardly wringing her hands. Something about this situation felt very uncomfortable. She couldn't decide whether it was just the kiss with Lucas. Or the fact that it was interrupted by Jack. Or perhaps it was Jack's complete lack of wisecracks and snotty zingers. He had gone mute on her.

Jack hesitated, standing a little longer than he intended to. "Good night, Emma."

"Good night."

He started for the door, then hesitated. "You do know that I'm picking you up tomorrow afternoon, right?"

"What for?"

"Dara Bates asked us to pick up her stepsister, Jane Fairfax, from the airport. She's back from her mission trip in India."

"Damn, do we _have_ to?" Emma pleaded; she lacked the strength to reel in her complaining. "God, has nobody heard of _cabs_ anymore?"

Jack stopped and stared at her openly. It wasn't in anger or even mild irritation, which was what was expected. It was disappointment; Jack was _disappointed_ in her, and the weight in his green eyes suddenly made Emma freeze. She almost couldn't take it.

Emma looked down and fiddled with a button on her cardigan, just to avoid his face. "What time do we leave?" she asked quietly.

"2PM."

"Okay."

Jack turned and the door slammed shut behind him. Emma stared at the lock and chain, suddenly feeling very confused.


	13. J'ai Deux Amours

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter Thirteen: _J'ai Deux Amours_

In a drafty and empty terminal sat a boy and a girl. The girl had her legs folded Indian style, slumped against a cold plastic bucket seat. She had her red hair coiled in a tight bun and wore a green zip-up and skinny jeans. A chai tea latte from Saxby's was casually sipped as she gave discreet sidelong glances that only worked because she hadn't bothered to take off her aviators.

To her left, sat the boy. He wore a collared navy polo and jeans. Dark, thickly rimmed reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose. He scanned _The New York Times_ diligently, turned a page, and took a sip of his coffee. It had a certain undisturbed rhythm to it.

Until Emma leaned in.

"Now boarding, Platform 9 ¾."

Jack turned a page.

"Anything off the trolley, dears?"

A forced cough.

"Alas. _Earwax_," she joked.

Jack cleared his throat.

Emma slumped back in her seat. "Here's what you're sup_posed_ to say," she made her back ramrod straight and sniveled, "Emma, we are in an _air_port. We are not fictional creatures of JK Rowling's magical _realm_. And you are trying _way_ too hard to start a conversation right now."

Jack glanced up and smiled, "See, why would I do that when you're perfectly capable of carrying on a full conversation by yourself?"

Emma frowned and said pointedly, "You don't like Luke."

"Sorry?" he turned his head.

"Well, it's the only conclusion _I_ can come to. You've been ignoring me since you saw him in my kitchen. You disapprove."

Jack shrugged.

"_That's_ all I get?" Emma gaped, laughing. "Come on, Jack, I hate your criticism on a daily basis _except_ when it comes to people I date. It came especially handy in high school."

"Yeah, you did date some douchebags," he agreed. "I liked Steve Weiss though."

"That's because he let you borrow his car whenever you wanted."

"_Mustang_," Jack sighed, gazing far off. "I think I had a mancrush on him."

Emma rolled her eyes. "So, tell me. What about Luke don't you like?"

He smirked and pointed, "See, that? That's a trap."

"No, it's not, I just want your honest opinion."

Jack took off his glasses and polished a lens.

Emma stared at him.

"What?" he laughed, "I think he's nice."

"_Nice_?"

"God, Emma, _drop_ it."

"What's the point of being my best friend when you're not going to be completely honest with me?" Emma elbowed him. "I can take it, you know I can. I've _been_ taking it."

Jack sighed. He folded his paper, shook his head, and was about to finally open up, when an announcement came on the P.A, followed by a flood of people from the gate.

Emma perched her sunglasses up and sighed, finishing the last of her chai tea. She dunked it into a recycling bin and slung her purse over one shoulder. "What does she look like again?"

"I don't know. What was it that Dara said?" Jack tucked the newspaper under one arm. "Oh, she has brown hair."

"Cool, that narrows it down."

Jack snorted and Emma pulled out the creased newspaper. She dug for a black Sharpie in her purse, pulled the cap off with her teeth, and scribbled something onto _The Times_.

"What are you doing? I _bought_ that," Jack said, horrified.

"Shush," Emma muttered. She capped the marker, threw it back into her bag, and flipped the paper around. Giant, thick black capital letters spelled out _Jane Fairfax_ across the front page. Emma held it up above her head like a dutiful chauffeur.

After a solid five minutes of scanning faces, the pair noticed a girl around Emma's age walking towards them. She had a beat-up, tribal looking camping backpack slung over one shoulder, and a guitar case held in her other hand. Colorful bangles were around her wrists and her fingers were adorned with eclectic looking rings.

The girl came to a stop in front of them. "Jack and Emma?"

"Yep," Jack smiled. "Are you Jane?"

"_Yep_," Jane repeated with a grin. She held out her hand and they shook. "Pleasure to meet you guys. Thank you so much for picking me up, I'm pretty sure Dara is eternally indebted to you."

"It's no problem. Dara kicks herself over the smallest things."

"How was your flight?" Emma asked politely.

"_Long_," she laughed. Jack smiled.

As they set off for baggage claim, Jack and the newcomer started a conversation about her mission trip in India. Emma listened quietly and tried to ignore the feeling of being snubbed. _You're being too sensitive._

"See any of your luggage?" Jack asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. He gestured at the slowly rotating wheel.

"Not yet. Mine's bright green. It's about _yay_ big."

"What, just one?" Jack asked, surprised. "You were there for three months and you took _one_ bag?"

"And this baby right here," Jane grinned, patting her backpack. She shrugged, "I'm a light packer. I don't need much. I don't buy much. I find pleasure in other things. The culture, the people, the lifestyle."

"I respect that," Jack said.

Emma pressed her lips together.

Jane smiled and slipped out her cell phone from her jean pocket. "I should call Dara and tell her I'm here. She's such a sweetie—always worried sick about me."

As Jane Fairfax held up the flip phone to her ear (an old AT&T model Emma was sure she hadn't seen since 2003), the redhead couldn't help but watch her critically.

The truth of the matter was that Jane Marie Fairfax was kind of _gorgeous_. She was tall, taller than Emma and a little shorter than Jack, and had the slender physique of some backpacking vegetarian _yogi_. Her hair was dark, thick and pin-straight, falling like some great curtain to her ribcage. She brushed her bangs out of big brown eyes and flashed a perfect white smile.

Emma wondered if Jane ever had braces and decided to unconditionally _hate_ her if she didn't.

"I see your bag," Jack said. "Wait here." He dragged it off the carousel and the wheels clattered on the linoleum.

"Thanks," smiled Jane.

Emma mutely followed them out.

In the parking garage outside of JFK International, the (minimal) luggage was loaded in the trunk of Tom Woodhouse's old Honda. Seatbelts were fastened and the rear view mirror was adjusted and the key slipped into the ignition. The journey to the Bates residence began.

"Sorry for stealing shotgun," Jane apologized. Emma smiled politely from the backseat and reminded Dara's stepsister that she had insisted in the first place.

The stereo started blaring and Jack moved to turn it down.

"No _way_," Jane sat up, folded her legs and cranked up the volume. "Passion Pit?"

Jack glanced at her and grinned, "You like them?"

"Oh my gosh, I've been in love since I saw them live at Bonnaroo last June!"

"Wow, Jack, somebody else actually likes your obscure indie music."

He laughed at Emma through the rear view mirror. Jane, surprisingly, did not look amused. She pursed her lips and stared out the window.

"I wish I could go all the way to Bonnaroo," Jack sighed, flicking on a turn signal. "A couple friends bought us tickets to Lollapalooza in Chicago last summer and Passion Pit was part of the lineup. I am officially converted."

"Ooh, then you'd _love_ Phoenix. You have to let me make you a mix CD."

"I would love that, thanks."

As the conversation became more and more exclusive, Emma sighed and found herself resigning to watching highway signs and playing a not-so-competitive game of Padiddle alone. Which, regrettably, was a lot harder in daylight.

* * *

When one door closes, the sunroof opens.

The same could be easily said about friendships. Jack's half-hearted snubs came at the perfect time, as Taylor and Oliver had just returned from Italy. Emma took it upon herself to bike uptown Sunday morning and stop by, armed with a ribboned basket full of brownies.

"What is it with you and baked goods?" Mrs. Weston balked, sliding the batch onto her kitchen counter. "Are you like Ned the Piemaker? Do you stress-bake?"

"_Maybe_," Emma mumbled, aggressively breaking a brownie in two. She offered half. "Want a piece?"

Taylor smiled sympathetically. "Let me get some milk, sweetie." She opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of Horizon.

"How was the honeymoon?" asked Emma.

"Glorious," sighed the Weston bride. "Siena, Florence and Tuscany. I am a lucky, lucky girl."

Emma grinned mischievously, "Was it all starry nights and vineyards?"

"Um, pretty much." Taylor paused, "Plus a lot of honeymoon stuff I'm not gonna mention."

"_Dish_."

"No."

"Okay."

Taylor grinned and bit into a brownie. "So, _you_ dish. You met the infamous saint, Jane Fairfax. Does she know Jesus personally?"

"No. Jane… Jane is _cool_. In a really, really irritating way."

"What do you mean?" asked Taylor.

Emma recounted her meeting with Jane Fairfax, the unbelievably pretty, gracious, travel-savvy sweetheart of strong moral faith and character.

"Fuckin' pisses me off," she finished.

Taylor snorted.

"Oh, and can we talk about how she and Jack are basically getting _married_?" Emma lifted her eyes incredulously. "We're in the car for two minutes, _two_ minutes, and then it's all yadda yadda, Passion Pit _this_, and Lollapalooza Bonaboozle _that_. Let's talk about summer festivals for an hour! Wait right here guys, I'm just going to find a revolver in the glove compartment to _shoot_ myself with."

A cough. "Wow."

"Right?"

"I'm not gonna say it."

"Say what?" asked Emma.

Taylor's dark eyes were mischievous. "_Jea-lous-y_."

"Oh, come on."

"You are, balls to the wall, legitimately _jealous_ of this girl."

"I don't like labels," said Emma moodily. "And _ew_."

Taylor snorted and wiped her hands free of brownie crumbs. Oliver stumbled into the kitchen a minute later, sleepy and bleary-eyed. He yawned, waved to Emma and stopped to drop a kiss on top of his wife's head. He smiled contently and trapped her in a bear hug.

"Honey, can you please put on pants? A Hanes tee and boxers is not guest-appropriate."

"_Mmf_."

"Right," Taylor said dryly. "Coffee first, I get it."

Emma grinned. Her ringtone (The Cure's "Friday, I'm in Love") interrupted the clatter of pots and pans in the sink, and she flipped her phone open. "Hey, Heather."

"_Oh my God! Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God_."

"Open your mouth. Inhale."

Heather hiccuped.

"Now exhale."

_Whoosh_.

Emma smiled, "Good girl. Now you may talk."

Heather gushed, "_I just ran into Robbie Martin and his little sister buying groceries. I could die, ten times over_."

"Aw, honey," Emma winced. "What happened?"

"_Well, I thought about laying low. I kind of ducked behind the produce. But then my elbow hit one of the shelves and a _ton_ of apples went rolling across the floor._"

"Way to be inconspicuous," Emma had to laugh.

"_It's not funny!_" moaned Heather. "_Jenny saw me first. She's 10, and a total cutie. I used to braid her hair and watch _Hannah Montana_ on Saturday mornings. But yeah, Jenny ran over and hugged me, and Rob asked me how I was. He was _so_ nice about it, Emma, he didn't even mention what had happened! It was like he was trying to be friends._"

"That's nice," she murmured. This was unexpected.

"_And then he—well, Robbie—thanked me for the CDs I burned for him a few months back. Remember? He said I had gotten him hooked on a new artist. And then we got talking about books, and he had just finished this memoir about World War II that sounded really interesting. He's going to lend it to me next week_."

"Wow," Emma said. "Rob's being…surprisingly thoughtful."

"_Oh, he's always been like that_," Heather murmured. "_They're such a nice family_."

"If anything, this shows that you truly _can_ stay friends with people, am I right?" smiled Emma. "I'm happy for you. Now you can really let it go."

"_Oh. Yeah, that makes sense_."

"Heather, can you hold on a second? I'm getting another call." Emma switched lines, "Hello?"

"_Emma!_" The frequency of Dara Bates's voice had the capacity to shatter glass sometimes. "_Oh, you absolute angel, thank you so much for picking up my Janie!_"

"Oh—it's no problem, Dara. Jack drove, not me."

"_So modest. What did I want to tell you? Oh, yes. Mother and I want to treat Jane to dinner tonight, a sort of Welcome-Home _feast_. I'm inviting you and Jack! And maybe another girl friend of yours? Who was it I met at the wedding… brunette, short…_"

"That was Heather." _Ugh_.

"_Oh, yes, her. Perfect. I'll text you the restaurant address. Hugs and kisses!_" The line went dead.

Emma took another brownie.

* * *

**Author's Note:** So, I understand now what Jane Austen meant when she wrote: "I am going to take a heroine whom no-one but myself will much like." Don't get me wrong, Emma's a doll. I adore her. But sometimes she gets a little…well, _testy_. Okay, not a little.


	14. Let's Flirt, Okay?

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter 14: _Let's Flirt, Okay?_

"You know what I like about you, Heather?" Emma asked that evening.

Heather Smith glanced at her curiously, tucking her clutch under one arm as they crossed the street. "My charming personality and laid-back attitude about boys?" she teased.

The redhead laughed, "Ooh, _close_. No, I love that you're not married. Or male. It's nice to hang out with a single girlfriend again."

"_Aw_, that's so sweet of you to say." Heather threaded her arm with Emma's and the two girls grinned at each other. "I have a question for you."

"Yeah?"

Heather peered up with skeptical blue eyes. "Why don't _you_ have a boyfriend?"

Emma toyed with her long auburn braid. "I don't want one," she shrugged casually.

There was a heavy pause.

"I've dated," Emma explained. "Nothing was ever serious or extraordinary. I'm not in any hurry for a relationship, so why should I hunt after one?"

"Well, what about Luke?" challenged Heather.

"Luke could very well be a Fluke."

Both dissolved into snorts and giggles. Heather shook her head, "No, he has to be more than that. That boy is _hot_. Hot, hot, hot!" she spread her hands apart for emphasis.

"I know," Emma lamented. "But there was no…_ba-boom_!"

"Nuclear explosion?"

"Fireworks."

"Oh." Heather tilted her head thoughtfully, as they stopped to wait at a crosswalk. "That's a pretty dated concept, though. You don't have to throw somebody away because there's no instant spark."

"A _logical_ perspective," Emma pointed out. "But I'm a picky girl. With him, I kind of expected the first kiss to be _wonderful_. And it was just…Quaker Oatmeal."

"What?"

"Bland," she explained.

"Hmm. Well, maybe Luke's just not for you. Like those really beautiful shoes you've been trying to break in for two weeks." Heather pointed to the Michael Kors heels.

"I _like_ these," Emma pouted.

"Your ankles don't."

"They make my ankles look _good_."

"Not if you twist one!" Heather laughed.

"Point taken."

They had reached the double doors of Il Cantinori in Greenwich Village three minutes prior, but both girls decided to linger outside. The sky was darkening into bruised purples and pinks and Emma watched taxis cluster. "Maybe my expectations are too high."

"For the shoes?" asked Heather.

"For Fluke," said Emma.

"Duke Fluke."

"_Arch_duke Fluke."

"Rebuked to Puke."

"Okay, I'm going inside."

Fifteen minutes later, the party Dara Bates had gathered was halfway through a plate of bruschetta and a giant epiphany: everybody was in love with Jane Fairfax.

"Tell them," Dara gushed, adjusting her glasses. "_Tell_ them about the orphanage you helped rebuild in Mumbai." When Jane's cheeks turned pink, her stepsister chortled, "From scratch, my friends, they constructed it from scratch! It's beautiful, too—my Jane has such an architectural _eye_."

"Dara, please!"

"Sweetheart, you're too humble." Out popped the digital camera and Jack was quickly pulled into the loop, "You have to see the pictures. It's gorgeous! I transferred them onto the card from my Gmail account."

"Beautiful," Jack agreed. "Is that stained glass?"

"Yeah, we built a mosaic," said Jane quietly. She pushed some steamed broccoli across her plate. Her cheeks were still rosy.

"_Wow_," marveled Heather, looking over Dara's other shoulder.

"Of course, the staff was in for a _real_ treat when the orphanage opened," continued Dara matter-of-factly. "Jane was asked to sing and play guitar for the children. Marcus told me you were _glorious_, as always."

"Marcus is my friend, he's been contracted to say nice things," Jane justified.

Emma laughed for the first time all evening.

"You're a musician, then?" asked Jack.

Jane turned and smirked, "Gosh, that's a pretty prestigious title."

"Not if I call you a _bad_ musician," he corrected.

She giggled.

Emma stabbed at her salad.

"She has the most beautiful voice," Dara said. "Emma, didn't you sing in high school?"

The youngest Woodhouse looked up cautiously. "Um," she cleared her throat, "I was in choir."

"What voice part?" asked Jane.

"Jane sings classical, too," explained Dara with an infectious smile. "She was going to be an Opera Performance major at Carnegie Mellon—before the financial trouble, that is."

Both women looked at Emma expectantly.

"Oh—um, I was an Alto."

"Ah. Soprano 1 here."

Emma chuckled.

"What's so funny?" asked Jane curiously.

"Nothing. It's just…well, it's a commonly known fact that Altos get the reject parts. Sopranos are always the cherry on the sundae, you know?"

Jane's blank face offered no encouragement.

"I mean, even _Mozart_ favored Sopranos," Emma rationalized.

"He probably nailed a lot of them," Jack muttered, twirling his fork into a mound of pasta. He paused when the entire table had grown silent. "Shit, I just said that out loud, didn't I?"

Heather burst into giggles.

"Oh! That reminds me, what else do you want on your mix CD?" Jane asked him.

"I like surprises."

Jane tapped her mouth with a finger. "Bach, then."

"_No_," Jack snorted. They grinned at each other.

"Luke likes Classical, too," Emma said conversationally—mostly to Heather. "And The Flaming Lips. He usually just blasts one or the other, it's really weird."

"Who is this?" Dara looked up.

"Lucas Churchill," Jack clarified with a wary look, "a guy Emma is seeing."

Jane's silverware accidentally clattered on the floor. "Sorry," she apologized, ducking underneath the tablecloth.

"Watch your head," Jack cautioned when she reappeared.

"Thanks," Jane smiled.

"Emma, I didn't know you had a _boyfriend_," Dara's eyebrows shot up suggestively. "Ooh-la-la!"

"A couple dates does _not_ a boyfriend make," insisted Emma.

"Is he cute?"

"…Well, yeah."

Jane hiccoughed.

Dinner eventually ended in a flurry of cappuccinos and tiramisu. The tab was taken care of and all stepped out into the humid July air. Emma held the door open for Dara and then Jane, who accidentally bumped her shoulder.

"Sorry," Jane mumbled.

"It's okay," Emma said. She watched her back curiously.

* * *

Yoga class the next morning was interesting in the sense that it was less about sun salutations and more about heated gossip.

Heather puffed out her cheeks and struggled into a shoulder stand, back arched into a foam block. "Are you sure?" she sputtered.

"Oh please," Emma winced, realigning her shoulder blade. "It's so _obvious_ that she has a problem with me. First the Mozart thing and then the shoulder snub?" Her legs swung back around. "Come on."

"Maybe you're overreacting." Heather flopped back down into _Savasana_ pose with a sigh. She brushed her dark bangs out of her blue eyes. "Jane seemed like a total sweetheart to me."

"_Pfft_. Sure, she's nice to everybody but me!"

"Especially nice to _Jack_," Heather giggled.

Emma propped herself up on one elbow. "What?"

"I think you found your 'spark' sitting across the table, Emma. They were flirting."

"Yeah, but…you don't think…it's not like—"

"_Shhh!_" the yoga instructor glared from across the studio.

"Sorry." Emma ducked her head and lowered her voice to a whisper, "I thought they were just being you know, super friendly."

It was Heather's turn for incredulous glances. "Emma, I wouldn't be surprised if they were playing footsie under the table."

"_No_."

"She seemed into him," Heather cradled her knees into her chest for the next pose. "_I_ used to giggle that much when I was with Robbie."

Emma's brow creased. She stared up at the ceiling tiles and voiced her thoughts softly: "Why is this bothering me so much?"

"Because you don't like her."

"Yeah," she mumbled.

"Can we postpone the romantic analysis for the next fifteen minutes?" whispered Heather. "The yoga instructor is giving me the stink-eye, and I don't think it means _Namaste_."

* * *

Emma and Luke saw each other nearly every day for the next three weeks. Breakfasts, coffee dates, shopping trips, escapades to the movies. It was indefinable. Not exactly _dating_, but not exactly exclusive friendship either. There was too much flirting and occasional kissing for that.

On a rainy Friday evening, both settled into her living room couch with a bowl of popcorn and _Die Hard_ blaring on the television screen. Emma scrunched her nose and munched on a kernel, watching as Bruce Willis dragged his bloody self across a myriad of broken shards of glass.

"_Ouch_. God, antiseptic, anybody?"

Luke grinned, amused. "I don't know what's more entertaining here—the movie, or your constant reel of social commentary."

Emma laughed, "Sorry."

"You better be."

"It's a top complaint, trust me," she murmured, "Jack says I'm impossible to watch movies with. Then again, so is he. When _The Dark Knight_ premiered, we wouldn't shut up in the second row. We got _booed_ at."

"Serves you right."

"Mm." Emma sighed and rested her head in Luke's lap.

"I keep running into Jack, you know," Luke told her, glancing down. "The grocery store, Blockbuster, Central Park. I'm thinking about getting a restraining order."

She snorted, "That's so weird. He didn't mention that to me."

"Yeah well, I don't think he likes me very much. He's very uptight and awkward when we see each other. I thought he was so much cooler at the wedding."

"Jack's just…moody," Emma waved her hand. "He's really a great guy."

Luke shrugged.

She rested her head back down and closed one eye, tracing shapes in the air with her fingers. Then she propped herself up on her elbows. "Hey, do you want to hang out with my friends one of these days?"

"Sure," Luke murmured, fingering a strand of her auburn hair. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know. Go see a movie, maybe. Dessert and coffee after." Emma sat up and crossed her legs, "I think you'd fit well in our group of misfits. I mean, Heather and Jack are pretty 'lax, you just need to know them better." She paused, "I'd probably have to invite Jane, too. Extend the ol' olive branch."

Luke smirked, "Another one of your girlfriends?"

"No," Emma sighed, "not so much. Family acquaintance is more like it; she just came back from a mission trip in India. I actually kind of hate her."

"And you want to invite her _because_…"

"Everybody else likes her."

"Oh, okay." Luke smiled his crooked sly smile. "Is she hot?"

Emma threw a popcorn kernel at him.

"Kidding. Let's Facebook stalk her." Luke reached over the side of the sofa and pulled out Emma's white Macbook from her bag. "You can leave her an obscene message if you want. And by you, I clearly mean _me_."

"Don't!" Emma lunged forward, laughing.

"What's her name?" Luke ducked, poised over the keyboard.

"No, no, no!"

"Let's search for her—"

In a speedy maneuver, Emma moved in and snapped the laptop shut. She laughed when Luke pouted, and slipped it back under the coffee table. "Troublemaker," she chastised. "I don't need any more reasons for Jane Fairfax to hate me."

Luke was quiet for a few moments. "Fairfax?"

"Yup." Emma dusted popcorn off of her jeans, "Look at this, you got popcorn all over the couch! You're going to vacuum all this, right?" she smirked.

"Of course I will," beamed Luke. "But for now, I think you should sit your beautiful self right next to me so we can pretend to watch _Die Hard_ but not really."

By the end of the film, Mr. Lucas James Churchill confided to Emma that he would like nothing better than to meet the rest of her friends, but only if they proved to be "as interesting" as she was.


	15. Paris Nights & New York Mornings

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter 15:_ Paris Nights/New York Mornings_

July ended in a haze of sweltering heat, three NYU campus tours, and a collection of heartfelt goodbyes. Surreyburg Theatre closed off its summer sessions in the beginning of August. That last curtain call of _Beauty and the Beast _on the 6th brushed away the flurry of costumes, spotlights, props and splintering makeshift sets—techies and actors embraced, exchanged phone numbers, best wishes, and hopes to see each other again that Fall. Familiarity was slowly being weeded out of Emma's life, and for once, the prospect frightened her.

She was troubled all throughout the walk down Jack's block, a cardboard box firmly nestled into her arms. There was a certain queasiness in her stomach, and she wondered whether it was from kissing Nora Goddard and Grace Shapiro goodbye or because she had impulsively agreed to deliver Robert Martin's forgotten power tools back to him.

Emma scowled at the box. "Stupid."

Sasha was sitting on the stoop. He was splitting a deck of cards with an older dark haired boy, and he grinned brightly when he saw her. "Mama."

Emma balanced the box at her hip. "Does your _real_ mother know that you're out here in this heat?" she challenged.

"Duh." Sasha shook the water bottle next to him. "Hydration, _see_?"

"Good boy. Who's your friend?"

"His name is Damian. He doesn't speak."

The dark haired boy glanced up.

Emma cocked her head. "Is that true?"

"No," said Damian. Sasha pushed him.

Emma dashed up the steps and paused to kiss Sasha's cheek. He scowled and she cautioned, "Stop lying, it's going to get you in big trouble some day."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Is Jack home?"

"_Ooh_." Sasha grinned wickedly and made kissing noises. Damian snickered and pulled out an Ace of Hearts. "I think he is—I saw him in the lobby with some girl."

Emma paused. "Oh."

"Dude, what are you _doing_?" Sasha snatched the deck away from his friend. "_Durak_. You suck at cards. Leave it to the Russian, _okay_?"

Damian squared his shoulders and sulked.

Emma snorted. "Bye, boys."

"Later, Mama."

Robbie was kind enough to buzz her up. Emma let herself in and found him in the kitchen cooking dinner. The sight of him wearing a frayed old blue apron instantly disarmed her, and Emma smothered a giggle. She set the box on the counter.

"Oh my God, it smells _incredible_ in here."

"Thanks," Robbie grinned. "They heckled me into making pasta and grilled chicken. And veggie burgers, for Jane."

"Jane."

"Yeah, Jane Fairfax. She's been over here the whole weekend." Rob took a spoon out of the dishware drawer. "Jack's been giving her his own guided tour of Manhattan. You know, complete with obscure cafés and underground Open Mic Nights."

"Right." Emma smiled and shoved her hands into her pockets awkwardly. "So, um, Sarah Kipling asked me drop off this stuff for you."

"Oh." Robbie moved away from the stove and peeked inside. "Damn, I forgot about these. Thank you."

"No problem."

"You're going to miss it, aren't you?" he asked with a crooked smile.

Emma faltered. "More than you know," she laughed, mostly to cover up just how brokenhearted she was.

"There's always next summer."

"Stop being so optimistic!"

Robbie grinned and shook his head, "Emma Woodhouse, always iron-clad. That's why Nora and Mason made you Student Director, you know that, right?"

Emma drummed her fingers against the countertop. "What were they thinking?

"That you're a likeable, level-headed and responsible girl who commands respect," Rob said seriously. He hunted inside the cabinets and muttered, "Aw, Jesus, where _are_ you?"

"He's probably not in there."

"I'm looking for the salt."

"Oh."

Robbie chuckled.

"And for the record, I'm not that likeable." Emma removed the cardboard box from the counter and wiped away the smudge it had left. "Trust me."

Rob half-smiled at her. "Hey, want to do me a favor and taste that? Tell me if it needs more salt."

"Sure." Emma picked up the spoon and dipped it into the meaty red sauce that was simmering on the stove. "_Mmm_. Are you making your own tomato sauce?"

"Yep."

"It's so _good_. Rosemary?"

"And thyme."

"Robbie, wow…"

He laughed, "No more salt, then?"

"No, I think you're fine." She dipped again. "I just double-dipped."

"_Ew_," teased Robbie.

Emma laughed and dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "Who taught you to cook?"

"Self-taught," Robbie explained. "I kind of had to. Between Mom's condition and how little my sister was, I realized that Ramen noodles and microwave popcorn wouldn't cut it every weeknight."

"Wow," Emma murmured.

"Yeah—I watch the Food Network when I'm stressed out. Jack thinks I'm gay."

"That's okay, I make him watch _Project Runway_ marathons with me sometimes. And I'm like, 98% convinced that he enjoys them. Season 2, we had full-out arguments about Santino and structured appliqué dresses and military jackets."

"And look at that," Robbie said, "I suddenly feel better about myself."

Emma giggled.

"He's out on the balcony if you want to say hi," said Rob.

"No, I should probably go."

"I'm sure they don't mind. Do you want to stay for dinner?"

"Oh, I—I can't. I…there's this thing I have to take care of when I get home."

"All right."

Emma watched him open the oven and taste the sauce. He was perusing the spice rack when she wrung her hands and blurted, "I'm going to go say hi."

"Thought you might," Rob smiled.

Emma left the kitchen and turned into the living room. She heard the gentle twang of a guitar, some muffled laughter, and a soft (occasionally interrupted) tinkering melody.

A pretty, lilting voice sang, "_In a bulletproof vest, with the windows all closed, I'll be doing my best, I'll see you soon_." A short chuckle, and then, "_In a telescope lens, and when all you want is friends, I'll see you soon_…"

She leaned against the panel of the screen door, watching quietly. Jane was sitting on the edge of a wooden chair, an acoustic guitar cradled in her hands. Her dark, thick hair was pulled back into a long ponytail, elegantly swept over one shoulder. Moxie sat at her feet with her head perched between her paws.

Jack was listening intently across the balcony, simultaneously attempting to string up multicolored lights over the metal rod that was perched above the window. He reached up to wipe the sweat off of his brow. "A _little_ pitchy," he grinned. When Jane laughed, he said, "No, I meant the guitar, not you. You have a beautiful voice."

"Aw, shucks," she moved her hands across the body of the guitar and set it down. "Yeah, it's old. I mean, _old_. Older than dirt. Three repairs already, two broken strings. A tourist even stepped on its neck in Mumbai."

"Somebody needs a Christmas present."

"Keep me on your list," Jane laughed.

Moxie suddenly lifted her head, ears perked up. She barked twice at Emma, who reached down to pet her. "Hey, sweetie." She turned to Jack. "Not trying to creep."

"Hey," Jack hopped down from the chair, squinting. He stared at her and didn't say anything else. Emma crossed her arms over her chest.

"How are you?" Jane asked politely.

"I'm good, thanks, and you?"

"Good."

"I heard you playing from the hall. It sounds really pretty."

"Thank you."

The two women were quiet for a moment.

"Are you enjoying New York?" Emma asked.

"Yes, of course," Jane smiled brightly. "Jack here is a pretty charismatic tour guide. He and Robert have been really, really sweet to me."

"She thinks sleeping on the sofa bed is _sweet_," said Jack dryly. "This girl is from a different millennium altogether. It's a little too cute."

"Oh come on, you've been making fun of me all weekend and _now_ you're on the compliment train?"

"…Yes."

Jane giggled.

Emma said quickly, "Okay well, I better be going. I just came to drop off some of Robbie's stuff from Surreyburg. Thought I would say hi."

"Glad you did," Jack said curtly. "Are you staying for dinner?"

"Can't. Sorry."

"Don't be," he said airily.

Emma pursed her lips and tried to remember a time when things with Jack had been this uncomfortable. She was starting to feel a little irritated. "Oh, I want to ask you two something."

"Shoot," Jack muttered, moving a chair out of the way. Moxie sat back on her heels beside Jane and Emma stared at her.

"Well," Emma tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "I wanted to get a small group of friends together this weekend, maybe to see that new Shia LaBeouf movie and grab some dessert and coffee."

"Who were you thinking of?"

"You and Heather, obviously. And Me, Luke and Jane. Maybe Robbie, if he's interested."

"Robbie's out of town this weekend."

"Oh. Well, are you guys interested?"

Jane head her head bent low, plucking at a string of her guitar. She glanced up momentarily. "Okay."

Emma arched an eyebrow, not entirely convinced.

Jack hesitated. "Yeah, I'll go."

"Cool. I'll text you about it later."

"Okay."

"Yeah."

"Sounds good."

"All right." Emma moved for the door. "I'll uh, see you guys later."

"Bye, Emma."

"Bye."

"See you."

"…Yeah."

"Do me a favor," Jack said, "close the door on your way in? I don't want flies getting inside."

"Oh. Yeah, sure. Bye."

"Bye."

Moxie barked.

Emma slid the screen shut and then the glass door. She counted five yoga breaths, but the unmistakable feeling of being _pissed off_ didn't magically evaporate. Saturday night wasn't looking too promising.

* * *

"Remind me again why you're angry?" asked Tom that Saturday afternoon. He watched from his favorite armchair as his daughter applied a second coat of mascara, a TV rerun of _House_ flickering on in the background.

"I'm not," Emma promised, steadying herself. "I am A-okay, never been happier, gladder than glad."

"I see."

"In fact," Emma declared, "I will have a wonderful evening. I've just decided. Regardless of any minor setback, I have already _decided_ to have a lovely night."

Tom lifted both eyebrows.

Emma got her feet and ran her fingers through her hair. "How do I look?" she asked. She was wearing a green cotton sundress and a denim jacket paired with her favorite brown suede boots. "If it rains…"

"It will _not_ rain. And you look like the prettiest girl in the world. So take a deep breath and go have fun with your friends."

Emma kissed her father on the cheek. "Thanks, Daddy. I love you."

"Love you, too. Keep in touch, please!"

"Will do. Do _not_ order pizza, okay? I made whole grain pasta, steamed broccoli and edamame. We are being _healthy_. Healthy, healthy, healthy. Those Whole Foods runs are expensive, and you know it."

Tom grimaced and massaged his temples. "Emma, you are _killing_ me with kindness."

"Quite the contrary," Emma grinned radiantly. "Bye!"

* * *

The cab picked up Luke at the Weston residence; the couple made no mystery out of their happiness. Emma craned her neck and saw Taylor and Oliver smiling mischievously from the second story window, apparently delighted that the two were spending so much time together. Her cheeks flushed and she waved back, just as Luke opened the door from the opposite side. He slid in and wolf-whistled, then apologized for doing so.

"I always wanted to do that, but now I feel like a _Looney Tunes_ character, so let's try that again." Luke got out of the taxi and opened the door again, a bright mega-watt grin on his face. "Emma! You look nice."

Emma laughed and promptly informed him that he was being a smartass, something that Luke Churchill knew very well how to be. Heather completed their knit little group at the next apartment stop, and the three met Jack and the illustrious Jane Fairfax in front of the theater. Greetings were chopped up and scrambled and abbreviated for time's sake. It went a little like a cracked out game of _Duck, Duck, Goose_:

"Hey, Heather."

"Hi, Jack!"

"Luke."

"Jack."

"Jane."

"Emma."

"Jack."

"Emma."

"Luke, this is Jane."

"Hey."

"Jane, this is Luke."

"Hi."

"I want gummy bears," Heather whined.

"Onward march, troops," Jack started for the door.

Luke and Emma instantly decided to despise the Shia LaBeouf film about three minutes in, past the opening titles. Mostly on the grounds of a "ridiculously stupid opening song" and for even implying that the boy from _Even Stevens_ could act to save his life. Something Emma initially disagreed with before being wheedled by Luke's rationalization. They snickered and carped throughout the entire first half, tossing popcorn at each other. Heather would glance over and giggle, then go back to admiring her onscreen crush.

"Do you get the impression," Luke spoke in hushed tones, "that Jack and Jane are _really_ uptight?"

Emma snuck a glance past Heather's shoulder. "What can I say? They take their action movies very seriously."

"Evidently. Hey, I want some Twizzlers."

"What? _Dude_. Sour Patch, right here."

"But I can't feel my tongue anymore." Luke took her hand and grinned, his smile eerie in the darkness. "Come with me _please_."

"Ugh, _fine_."

The concession stand had a satisfyingly long (and possibly endless) line. Luke used the opportunity to criticize Shia LaBeouf a little more, declare his love of candy and kiss Emma on the corner of her mouth. Emma decided and clearly told him that he was very much a manchild, which he didn't exactly deny.

"So, seriously, what's up with the two of them?" Luke asked casually with his arm around her shoulders.

"Who?"

"Your boy Jack and the prissy Miss Fairfax."

"Oh my gosh, you got that impression _too_, I'm so relieved! Here I was thinking I was this incredible bitch." Luke smirked and held out a response, which prompted Emma to shove him. "I don't know what's going on between the two of them. Apparently they're _super_ good friends now. She stayed with Jack and Robbie Martin all weekend because being upstate with Dara Bates didn't exactly give her an opportunity to scope out New York City's scene too well."

"_Ah_."

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Luke assured her. "They just seem very…item-y."

"Unfortunately."

"_Jack and Jane went up the plain to fetch a pail of water_," Luke started, a wry smile tugging at his mouth.

Emma sniggered, "_Jack fell down and broke his crown_."

"_And Jane was emotionless after._"

"Bahaha. You're terrible!"

"But so much fun!" Luke encouraged.

As they moved up in line, Emma made a point to say, "She's not emotionless. Just very reserved. Maybe she's trying to keep up an image of herself."

"What _image_? There's really nothing much there."

"Oh come on, she's a beautiful girl."

"I'm not very impressed," said Luke matter-of-factly.

"Maybe you're gay," suggested Emma.

"It's possible. I went through like, a _really_ big Easy-Bake-Oven phase."

And suddenly reminded of Robbie Martin's wonderful culinary skills, Emma found herself unraveling and broke out into giggles that had her doubled over with about four onlookers gawking nearby.

Dessert was a little more tame.

Jane Fairfax had been disturbingly mute all evening, which had caused the group to wonder whether a movie about flesh-eating robots had _really_ gone as far as to upset her. Halfway through a cappuccino and a red velvet cupcake, the pretty Miss Fairfax stood up, smoothed her black dress and excused herself to the Ladies Room with a polite smile.

"Is Jane okay? She's barely said a word all evening," Heather sat, mystified.

Jack shrugged, "She's a quiet girl to begin with."

Emma felt him look at her, but refused to return the expression. "Maybe she's not really into the _social_ group dynamic."

"She's been fine with me and Robbie all week," countered Jack immediately.

"Maybe she hates women," Luke suggested lightly.

Heather snorted, "She likes _me_."

"So you think."

"Guys, come on," Jack suddenly said. His green eyes were cold, and fixated right on Luke Churchill's face. "Stop talking about her like she's not even here with us. It's rude."

Luke spread his hands apologetically. "_Sorry_."

Emma lowered her eyes and stared at her cup of coffee, tracing the rim with a fingertip. She rubbed the foam off with a cloth napkin and felt Luke nudge her with his elbow gently. "Can I borrow your phone?" he asked. "I hate to be a nuisance, but I'm 100% sure I left my cell on Oliver's coffee table."

"That's fine." She pulled out her green Samsung from her clutch and handed it to him. "Just don't call anybody in Tel Aviv or New Zealand."

"Yes, because wracking up your long-distance bill was my _first_ priority," Luke grinned. She giggled and he disappeared towards the back of the café.

"And then there were _three_," Heather was quick to fill in the inevitable silence, beaming widely and drumming her knuckles on the table. Emma looked up at her and decided that she truly did _love_ the girl. She was just so _sweet_ and goodhearted. Even when Robert was mentioned, which was often due to the fact that he was Jack's roommate, she stood firmly and didn't hurl theatrics despite how strongly she felt. And Robbie…

Robbie was a good person; Emma tried to bury that irritating twang of her conscience by eating a cupcake.

Jack had suddenly taken up the hobby of openly expressing how much he disliked Luke Churchill. What had been a touch of disapproval was gathering a little too much momentum, and the second he called him "disrespectful and childish" Emma decided she had had enough.

"You are the biggest hypocrite I have ever met in my entire life."

Jack balked, "Ex_cuse _me? How so."

"You flipped out on Luke for talking about Jane behind her back. Lo and behold! You're _so_ much better."

"Why are you so quick to defend him, Emma?"

"Maybe because he's _right_, Jack. For crying out loud, Luke was just making a _joke_. Meanwhile, you're sitting here totally ripping him apart. Do you _get_ the hypocrisy now? Or should I make a Power Point presentation for you? I can make pretty diagrams, maybe even a pie chart about how much _shit_ you're full of tonight."

Heather winced a little and took a bite of her cheesecake. "I wonder if it's going to rain," she said whimsically.

Jack leaned forward on his elbows, practically glowering. "Emma, don't talk to me like I'm some sort of idiot, okay? I don't like the way he's rubbing off on you."

"Jesus, you're so _uptight_." Emma pushed away from the table and took her clutch. "I'm going to the Ladies Room."

"Fine, whatever."

_Yoga breath, yoga breath, yoga breath_. Emma was too furious to walk straight on her way past tables and couples and waiters. She held her clutch under one arm and practically Runway stomped the path, turning the corner sharply into the hallway where the restrooms were. Then her breath hitched in her chest and Emma screeched to a halt at the scene before her.

Right beside the pair of Pay Phones, Luke Churchill and Jane Fairfax were speaking—_arguing_, rather. She was backed up against the wall, her dark eyes smoldering defiantly with her arms crossed tight across her chest. Luke's body language was rigid and his jaw was tense when he murmured: "_You're being ridiculous_." Both seemed to be trapped in some sort of heated and intimate debate, too close for comfort, and it shocked Emma so thoroughly that she accidentally betrayed her presence with a gasp.

Luke glanced up and started. "Emma." Distance was instantly put between the two.

Jane stepped forward and smoothed her hair back, perfectly composed, if not a little pale. "I'll see you both back at the table."

"Okay," she said blankly. "_What?_"

* * *

**Author's Note: **Uh-oh. Things are _a-cookin'_. And it is so much fun! :)

Oh, the song Jane is singing and playing guitar to in the first part of the chapter is "See You Soon" by Coldplay. Messieurs, I tip my hat to you. Even though Coldplay is an English band, not French. Whatever. You're all European and infinitely cooler than us.

What else? Well, you guys are wonderful readers. Naturally. And yes, the spelling of Robbie's name has been changed (maybe because I reread _Atonement_). Chapter title courtesy of Corinne Bailey Rae's lovely song from her sophomore album _The Sea_. Beautimous.


	16. Ignite Your Bones

_I wonder why it is_  
_I don't argue like this  
With anyone but you  
I wonder why it is  
I won't let my guard down  
For anyone but you_

"Like a Star" by Corinne Bailey Rae

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter 16: _Ignite Your Bones_

It was a good thing that it wasn't _completely_ quiet in the cab. The mellow Joni Mitchell song on the FM was a distracting, eager touch. So was the horrendous slashing of the rain against the windshield. And of course, the rapid fire dialect of the taxi driver, who was trying to convince his cousin over Blackberry that steak was best served rib eye in a "delicate white wine reduction sauce, Kirk, what is your _problem_, don't you have _any_ regard for the culinary arts?"

Emma decided to stop eavesdropping and snuck a glance at Jack, who was staring out the window with almost laughable concentration. She slumped back in her seat, bored, and fiddled with the zippers on her jacket.

They had gone about forty-five seconds when Jack suddenly snapped, "God, _please_ stop playing with that."

Her hands dropped into her lap. "_Fine_."

He relaxed but his green eyes were fixed on her critically. "Thank you."

_You're welcome, you prematurely middle-aged jackass_.

She could have totally shared a cab with Luke, too, if he hadn't insisted upon sharing with Heather. And prissy Miss Jane had hailed the train back to Dara's upstate.

Emma felt her lip curling. She had decided to convince herself, contrary to all opposing evidence and intuitive skepticism, that what she had seen between Luke and Jane had _not_ been a snug tête-à-tête between two romantically involved strangers—it was just a hushed disagreement about each of their prospective dates.

Not that Jane came as Knightley's date.

Emma looked up sharply. _Oh my God. What if she came as his date?_

"Did Jane come as your date?"

Jack turned and caught sight of her stupefied face. Clearly, Emma had not intended for the words to rocket from her brain and leap out of her mouth. He hesitated. "Uh—I didn't ask her to be my date."

"Oh."

"Why?"

Emma waved him off with the universal "Don't worry about it" gesture. Jack raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth to say something, and stopped himself. He looked back out the window again.

"You know, she's not a completely awful person."

"Who isn't?" Emma turned.

"Jane Fairfax," Jack said. "If you gave her a chance, you two would probably end up being good friends."

"Right."

"Seriously."

"Okay, Jack."

Jack rolled his eyes. The cab came to a stop by his building and he slipped a few bills out of his wallet. "This covers her fare, too."

"You don't have to—"

"I got it."

Emma bit her lip. Being angry with Jack Knightley was always difficult, especially because he had a habit of doing nice things regardless. "I'm internally _conflicted_ now," she said moodily.

Jack shook his head. "You redheads. All emotion, no rationality."

Emma glowered.

Jack stepped out of the taxi and raised his collar up against the rain. "Say hello to your dad for me."

"Okay," Emma mumbled.

The door slammed shut. She watched Jack take the front steps, two at a time, before he disappeared into his building.

At the corner of her own street, Emma lingered by her stoop for a little too long, letting the rain mat her auburn hair down into wet tendrils. She didn't particularly care about her boots anymore.

Tom had fallen asleep on the couch watching a _Doctor Who_ marathon on BBC America. Emma got a quilt from the linen closet, drawing it over him as he snored. "Sci-Fi Saturday," she half-smiled.

She took the polished off plate of pasta from the coffee table, rinsed out two mugs and cleaned the kitchen. There was something therapeutic about it to her, about gathering all the hair out of your face, changing into sweats and scrubbing away dirt and grime instead of _thinking_. Thirty minutes later, Emma showered, changed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

"Maybe he's in love with her."

Emma accidentally swallowed her coffee too soon and endured a coughing fit that managed to get the attention of the other civilized people enjoying brunch. Taylor smiled, amused, and slid her friend a glass of OJ.

"That's," her sentence was punctuated by a gulp, "ridiculous."

"Honey, I'm just doing the math here. This girl pretty much moved _in_ with them for a week," Taylor pressed one finger down and proceeded with the other, "he took her out with friends, _and_ rumor has it that he bought her a brand new guitar."

"_What?_"

"Heard it from Dara Bates herself. It arrived this morning, on her doorstep. And get this, it came with two dozen red roses."

"_No_."

"Yes."

Emma dipped her finger into a lukewarm cup of coffee. "Jack's not the type to _do_ grand gestures though," she rationalized. "I never saw him as that kind of guy. Is he that kind of guy?"

"With all due respect sweetie, I don't think you've ever imagined him as anything but a brother." Taylor set her cup down and tilted her head. "Romantically, it's a whole different ballpark."

"Jack is _not_ my brother."

Taylor shrugged. A waitress passed and she asked for another cup of tea.

"Why _her_?" Emma pouted. "Anybody but her."

"Too perfect?"

"She's just so…" Emma struggled, gray eyes downcast. "I don't know. Annoying. It's everything and nothing. Have you ever just _hated_ a person without being able to pinpoint a reason why?"

Taylor was nodding. "My mother."

Emma snorted and Taylor giggled. "Oh God," Emma moaned, "I'm such a bitch. Am I an awful person?"

"You're an _emotional_ person."

"Aren't they the same?"

Taylor hesitated. "Well, yes. But take it with a grain of salt; women wouldn't have accomplished anything without being driven by intense emotion. Feminism 101. _So_," she grinned, "what's on your agenda this Sunday?"

Emma's face grew dark. "I have to meet Satan."

"Oh, cool. Do you owe him rent?"

"I got a call from Abigail Hawkins last week. She's designing costumes for her aunt's theatre production in Schenectady and _Ethan_ suggested she get some input from me."

"You didn't _agree_," said Taylor, aghast.

"I did."

"_Why?_"

"I don't _know_," Emma said with a certain morbid curiosity. "Funny thing is, I didn't even work on costume crew at Surreyburg. But 'Yes' pretty much leaped out of my mouth a second after she asked me."

"See, you _are_ a good person."

"Or I'm just a masochist," she muttered with a wry smile.

"Could be," Taylor shrugged. She grinned back at her.

* * *

Abigail was old money. Her cousin's cousin's best friend's wedding planner's daughter's colorist was apparently best friends and neighbors with Kevin Bacon, of the wealthy Philadelphia Bacons.

One would assume that such prestigious connections would endow a girl with a bit of modest class. But no, Abby was a walking billboard of snootiness.

"Abigail," she corrected Emma over finger sandwiches and tea. "_Never_ Abby."

"Oh." Emma managed a tight smile.

She had yet to touch a sandwich. Crustless was a no-no. She felt like she was at a stuffy English tea party. A butler named Jeeves would probably burst out of the kitchen soon to ask if she wanted a dollop of cream in her Earl Gray. Emma busied herself by looking at the fine mahogany furnishings, crystal candelabras, and massive Victorian fireplace in Miss Hawkins's old money country house in Radnor. The area was well known for housing very affluent Philadelphians. Villanova University was practically seven minutes away, in all its prestigious Catholic glory.

"You haven't touched your tea," Abigail interrupted the flow of Emma's thoughts.

She looked up immediately. "Oh. Sorry, I was just admiring the room. This house is gorgeous, Abigail."

"It is, isn't it?" Abigail smiled. "Daddy just had this room renovated in the French country style three months ago. It's a little too rustic for my taste. Ethan loves it, but shit, I feel like there's a _cow_ to milk in the backyard, for the love of God…"

Emma thought she wasn't pretty enough to be so arrogant. Abigail was thin and bony, with sharp cheekbones and a nose that was a little too big for her face. Her blue eyes were fringed with thick lashes caked in mascara and _somebody_ had to tell the girl that the smoky eye look did _not_ transfer well in daylight. She wore hot pink Christian Louboutins and a slip dress that looked more like a lacy teddy from Victoria's Secret. The best part? Abigail was under a strictly warped self-image and had deluded herself into thinking that this was all _sensuous_ and _sexy_.

"So uh," Emma cleared her throat and took a sip of her tea, "where's Ethan?"

"At the shooting range."

"Excuse me?"

Abigail grinned, "Sterling, my big brother, introduced Ethan to our family shooting range. Got him a license and everything. Oh, he is _so_ sexy when he comes back from an afternoon there. Strips off that shirt, hot and sweaty, muscles _gleaming_—"

Emma didn't know what was worse. The beyond creepy possibility of _anyone_ finding somebody so repulsive as Ethan _sexy_, or the fact that Abigail's parents had been pompous enough to name their son Sterling.

"By the way," Abigail suddenly piped up, "I love that skirt. It's so peasant chic. Dolce? I have one just like it from Saks on City Avenue."

Emma straightened the bell skirt over her knees. "No, I just splurge on shoes. Urban Outfitters, $19.99. I live in that store, they have the cutest scarves."

"Interesting," said Abigail, but her expression indicated just the contrary.

Ethan burst through the double beige French doors, a rifle case balanced over one shoulder. He stopped, startled in the doorway, as if he _hadn't_ been the one to suggest inviting Emma over in the first place. "Jesus, I completely forgot. Good to see you, Emma. I must look so indecent right now," he guffawed, wiping the sweat off of his brow.

"You look hot and you know it," Abigail giggled. "Go grab a shower in the guest room, sweetie, the one with the steam bath. Emma and I will be waiting here to discuss Aunt Fifi's costumes."

"Sounds good, Babe," Ethan winked. "Always looking out for me. Thanks, sexy."

Emma didn't know whether to laugh hysterically or vomit on the Persian rug.

Abigail's eyes followed Ethan out of the room and Emma thought it best to intervene before she started muttering lusty obscenities under her breath. "So why are we waiting for Ethan? I thought the costumes were your expertise, not his."

"Well, _duh_," Abigail chortled. "But Emma, you have to understand. I need E's opinion on _everything_. It's just the way it is when you have a man in your life. Oh wait," her blue eyes glimmered sympathetically, "you _wouldn't_ know that, would you?"

Emma felt anger bubble up in her throat. "No," she said in a controlled voice, "I'm single."

"What a shame, cute girl like you."

"I beg to differ—"

"I can't _believe_ you haven't touched your sandwich," Abigail cut in, "whole grain, Emma, with hummus imported straight from Israel."

"Oh," Emma managed. "'Kay."

Eventually Ethan _did_ make it out of the shower to discuss Abigail's costume sketches for _Guys and Dolls_. It was also imperative that he wear nothing but a striped Nautica towel wrapped around his waist. Emma, unsurprisingly, had little input on the designs. What corrections she _did_ have were instantly shot down by Abigail, who considered her taste "too conservative and too Laura Bush, Emma."

She left, declining early supper even though it threatened to offend Perry and his "darling marzipan cupcake princess". Emma dry-gagged.

* * *

On the train from 30th Street Station to Penn, Emma was caught in a rare moment of gratitude. It was completely inappropriate too, since she had been halfway through a _Vogue_ article on the horrors of factory farming from a celebrity editorial.

Maybe pigs had reminded Emma she was thankful that Ethan had come onto her at Macy's in the first place. It had opened her eyes as to how truly _disgusting_ of a person he was. Jack, with his frequent bursts of intuition, had nailed Perry's character months before. Had she not been so stubborn, Emma could have saved Heather a lot of heartache.

And it was this bubble of a thought that made Emma Woodhouse eventually hop into a cab to Jack's neighborhood, just shy of Greenwich.

Luke phoned her when traffic was especially slow.

"_I have some gossip,_" he said; she could practically _hear_ the sly smile in his voice. "_Remember that weird confrontation Jane and I had at La Luca Café?_"

"Do I?" Emma winced. She hadn't counted on him bringing it up.

"_God, talk about not liking somebody off the bat_," Luke snorted, "_that girl is so frigid. But get this, I asked her if she had a boyfriend. Jane got so red; she started babbling about this guy in India named Marcus, who according to my sources, is engaged to one Christina Page Addlewood._"

"What? _The_ Christina Page Addlewood?" Emma gaped. "CPA Paris? The French designer?"

"_The very same. Apparently our Jane is quite the little home wrecker. I heard she left Mumbai early because Christina found out about the affair with Marcus._"

"No way."

"_Would I lie to you?_"

"I don't know, would you?" Emma muttered.

"_What was that?_"

"Nothing," she said. "And who, pray tell, are your credible sources?"

"_We have a mutual friend from Boston U. My world just became microscopic_." Lucas paused, and Emma heard him scribbling something on paper. "_Fucking microscopic_."

"I wonder if Marcus sent her that guitar," Emma mused aloud. "Jane's a musician, and a secret admirer bought her a new Gibson and two dozen roses. Left it on Dara's front doorstep."

"_Ain't no secret, darlin'. What a scandal, huh? And Christina is _pregnant_, too. Don't you love me? What a delicious piece of gossip I bestow on you on this dreariest of Sundays._"

Emma chewed on her lower lip, digging through her wallet for cab fare. "Yeah," she murmured, stepping out. "Delicious."

"_You want to come visit me? I'm so bored at the Weston place_."

"I can't, I have to talk to Jack."

"_Oh. Resolved any issues?_"

"Not so much," she laughed hollowly. The door shut and she turned around the block.

"_You do realize he's jealous as all hell, don't you?_" Luke pointed out. "_I stole away his best friend, and now he's being a total pissant about it_."

"Jack is anything but petty, Luke."

"_It takes a man to know a man. You mark my words_."

"Yeah, yeah," Emma rolled her eyes. "I'll call you later."

"_Bye, kiddo_."

Emma hurled her cell phone inside of her satchel. Luke was irritating her today. But then again, he hadn't counted on calling her after extremely unpleasant teatime with Abigail.

Jack was busy when Emma let herself in. He was situated at the kitchen table, with mountains of paper work and highlighters scattered among crumbs and placemats. Cold cups of coffee. A Macroeconomics book near his elbow.

Moxie rocketed into the foyer and slobbered all over her, and Emma giggled and scratched her behind the ears. "Hey, girl."

"What are you doing here?" Jack had gotten up and was looking over suspiciously from the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. "I'm kind of busy."

"I can come back."

Jack watched her for a couple of moments. Emma smiled playfully. She knew how badly he wanted to boot her out. But guilt was a pesky business.

"No," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's fine. I need a break from studying anyway."

"Summer class at NYU?"

"Yep."

Emma followed him into the kitchen and washed her hands. She began drying them on a dishrag and said, "I'm going to guess that Robbie's off conquering the world somewhere."

"Or working a late shift at the tennis club," Jack corrected.

"Yeah, that's what I meant."

Emma hopped up on the countertop, bare legs swinging freely. Jack was still leafing through his book; a pen was fixed behind one of his ears. "Can I talk to you?" she asked quietly.

Jack looked up. His green eyes narrowed skeptically. "I don't want a repeat of yesterday's theatrics, Emma." He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. "Seriously."

"I feel bad about what happened," Emma started. "The thing is, I understand that you don't like Lucas Churchill. I just want to know _why_."

Jack made a face. "Look, I thought he was more like Oliver. But I was wrong. Luke just seems very inconsiderate and self-serving. And sometimes you slip up and I see it in _your_ personality, too."

"So now I'm inconsiderate and self-serving," Emma responded defensively.

"No. Not by nature, you're not. But the more time we spend with some people, the more likely we are to soak up their qualities." Jack added, "Good and bad."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," she said stiffly.

"_Emma_—"

"Give me some more credit, Jack."

He pressed his lips together. "Okay."

There was an uneasy silence. Emma pulled at a sliver of wood sticking out of the countertop and Jack folded a page corner of his textbook.

"So," Emma ventured carefully, "did you hear about Jane's new guitar?"

"Yeah, she called me about it. She's over the moon."

"…Did you send it?"

Jack glanced up quickly. "No," he laughed. "Why?"

"Taylor thought you might have," Emma said breezily. "She's playing Mother Gossip, as usual. She and Dara are phone buddies and a theory or two was shared."

"Yeah, I heard about that. Dara's pretty much convinced I'm going to marry her stepsister."

"So you're not."

"Emma please," Jack snorted. "You of all people."

Emma blushed, embarrassed. "Well hey," she blurted in defense, "you two _are_ spending a lot of time together. One can only assume."

"I spend a lot of time with _you_, too. Last I checked, there's no engagement ring on your fourth finger."

"True. I _am_ married to the city."

Jack laughed and rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "You really have to stop listening to the women in your life. God knows men don't over-analyze half of much as you guys do. Jane needed somebody friendly to acquaint her with New York. And I felt for her, being cooped up with Dara all day. Come on. Use that head of yours."

Emma fidgeted. "But you're not like, totally in love with her."

"No, we're madly in love," Jack answered. "We're eloping to Vegas this fall."

"I will throw this fork at you," Emma laughed. "Seriously!"

"Em, you're too bright to be so stupid," said Jack.

"…Thanks."

Emma smiled when he laughed. She teetered at the edge of the counter precariously before leaping onto the kitchen tiles. Her face screwed up in pain. "Ouch. _Ow, ow, ow!_"

"What is it?" Jack asked, getting up.

"I _hate_ your cabinets," she moaned, craning her neck to see the side of her knee. "Ninety percent sure I have a splinter. A _big_ one."

Jack winced, "_Ooh_, nice. Stay right there."

"Where am I supposed to _go_?"

Knightley returned about two minutes later with a pair of tweezers, a tube of Neosporin and a band-aid. "Sit. On the floor is fine."

"I can do it myself."

"Really?" Jack grinned and handed over the tweezers. "I want to see."

Emma took in a gulp of air and snatched them determinedly. She stared at the sliver of woodchip in her knee, squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pluck. "_Gah!_ No."

"Such a baby," he muttered.

Jack made Emma sit on the floor across from him. "This will hurt a little," he warned, green eyes trained upward. "You ready? Don't scream. I have neighbors."

"Yeah, yeah," Emma muttered. "Just do it." Jack leaned over and pulled it out swiftly. "Ouch," she winced. "That's it?"

"Uh-huh. Anticlimactic, right?"

"Little bit. Am I really silly?" Emma laughed.

"Yes. Extraordinarily silly," Jack stated. "Look, you're not even bleeding so much."

"I'm _bleeding_?" Emma gasped, looking over her knee. "Oh."

Jack smeared a dab of Neosporin and pressed the bandage delicately over her skin. He smoothed the corners gently with his knuckles; Emma lowered her eyes.

"Your hands are cold."

"I washed them," Jack smiled. He sat back on his heels and gathered the white scraps. "Do I get a Congressional Medal of Honor now?"

"You could pull it off," Emma grinned. "Taylor Swift won a Grammy this year, you know."

"This is true. Gives me hope. Come on, cripple, I'll help you up."


	17. Paint

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter 17: _Paint_

It was getting too hot out; everybody was insufferable at this temperature.

So Emma Woodhouse found absolute bliss in the busy, whirlwind months that followed. August tapered off with three visits to Washington DC to see Izzy, who had perfected the art of the pregnancy waddle and had a constant hankering for peanut butter turkey sandwiches and watermelon. An almost criminally short week at Belmar Beach punctuated the month. Then fall orientation at NYU.

September was agony in how foreign it was.

But Emma, the ever-dignified social butterfly, found herself at ease at the university. Not without some initial setbacks, of course. A scheduling conflict made her miss an entire week of Statistics, the dorm's AC constantly sputtered and her roommate was some snooty Italian heiress named Carolina who threatened her with the blunt end of a Manolo Blahnik heel five days into classes.

A quick complaint to Student Services and Emma was sharing quarters with a lovely girl named Anne, a Fine Arts major.

"Guess who bought you coffee?" her roommate sang one Friday afternoon, grinning from the doorway. Emma was beginning to realize that Anne Foster always had a permanent smile on her face. Also, she was a Godsend.

"Um, we're getting married," Emma beamed. She was changing her bedspread to candystriped pink sheets and Anne made a face at her own navy blue covers.

"Mine look so _gloomy_ now."

"No, look. Ours are perfectly complementary!"

"The complementary color of blue is _orange_, Emma," Anne smiled, leaning against the bureau. "Take it from the girl who stocked up on way too many community art classes."

"Yeah. I know what _chiaroscuro_ means," said the redhead. "Aren't you proud of me?"

"So, so proud of you!"

Emma grinned. Anne was probably one of the nicest girls she had ever met. There was something just so _genuine_ and sweet about her.

"Friday, I'm In Love" disrupted the short silence in the room and Emma took her cell phone from the bedside table. _1 Text Message From: Dad. _Emma hit a key and read: _Please come home this weekend! I miss you and it's empty here! :( _

"I bet it took him fifteen minutes to type this out," Emma looked up at Anne, who smiled sympathetically. "Texting isn't exactly my dad's forte."

"Is he okay?"

"Yep, he misses me. It's been just the two of us for years. Well, at least after Izzy moved to D.C." Emma sat on the edge of her mattress, "He must be so lonely."

"Go home then," Anne encouraged. "Sometimes we just need to see the people we love; and you're not that far away, too. I'm all the way back in Chicago."

"Mm. What's your family like?"

"Don't get me started," chuckled Anne. "I have a diva, an airhead and a massive hypochondriac back home. But we have a pretty fabulous dog named Molly. I miss her. She's a Dalmatian."

"Cute," Emma grinned. "Dang, I usually deal with divas on stage. Never at home, though. Are your sisters that bad?"

"Oh no, Elizabeth and Mary aren't the divas. It's my dad." Anne grinned, "No, like legit. He has highlights in his hair. And a personal manicurist named Doreen."

"You can totally live with me after second semester, Annie."

"I appreciate it," Anne giggled. She looked thoughtfully at her cup for a moment. "So, who do you miss the most?"

"Oh, tricky," Emma laughed softly. "My dad, definitely. I always miss my big sister too. Taylor I've gotten used to not seeing after she got married. But I miss Jack. It's been a month and a half, I think."

"_Ooh_, the infamous BFF," teased Anne. "I want to meet this guy."

"Yeah, yeah. I still have to meet Fred! Mr. Marine Corps."

Anne blushed. "You might have to hold your breath there. He's still stationed in Japan." Her brown eyes practically sparkled. "But I see him again in six months! I might pee my pants in the airport. Then he will chuck me when he realizes that he needs a _potty_-trained girlfriend."

"Doubt it. It'll all be very sweeping and romantic. In fact, we should do your hair up in pin curls and make you wear red lipstick. 1940s war drama, right there. _Bam_."

"Or I can just wear sweatpants. Or is that another chuck factor?"

"He will _not_ chuck you," Emma insisted. "He's lucky to have you."

"I'm lucky to have him."

Emma put an arm around her shoulder and Anne smiled.

Their door burst open a second later, and a tan and absurdly tall boy grinned widely from the hallway. "Bridget and Jeremy are making a liquor store run, who's game?"

* * *

Emma came home on a Saturday morning early in October. Tom was so absurdly happy that he made a big, elaborate brunch that touched his daughter immensely until the shock of remembering he could cook overshadowed every other emotion. Still, there was scrambled eggs and bacon and jam and toast. Tom babbled on as if Emma had spent two months in Tahiti instead of New York City, but she didn't mind. She had missed him too much.

Jack was back in school and Emma couldn't get in touch with him. She didn't feel comfortable intruding either. It disappointed her and she felt that inevitable rift that time apart had created. But dwelling was impractical.

Heather, however, was available. She was visiting from Rutgers and the two girls met Sunday afternoon for coffee. They spent an hour afterwards walking in Central Park near the Boathouse.

"I like it," Heather was saying. "The campus is gorgeous. Some days I miss home and some days I don't."

"I hear ya. I miss Dad and my friends more than anything else though."

"Have you spoken to Jack yet?" asked Heather, squinting against the sunlight.

"No, not yet," Emma sighed. "Whatever, we'll play phone tag and eventually catch up. It happens, right? He must be so busy, I can rarely reach his cell half the time. When I do, he just sounds so frazzled."

"Really? That's weird." Heather shrugged. "I don't know. Jack's the only friend from home I've been talking _nonstop_ with. We Skype, we call, we text." She giggled, "I tell him _everything_, and he's got the _best_ stories."

Emma had unconsciously stopped walking.

"You okay?"

"Oh, yeah, I thought my shoe was untied." Emma cleared her throat and continued the pace, "That's cool. How is he?"

"Really good. He wants to study abroad next semester in London," explained Heather. "You know what, it's not so much study abroad as it is an internship. But Jack's got financial concerns about it, and your standard fitting-in worries. But I told him that he's a very charismatic and bright guy and he'll be _fine_. He's so silly!"

Emma couldn't answer. She was stunned by how outraged and hurt she was. And she had difficulty keeping it off her face, too. Had Heather really gone and replaced her?

"Oh my God." Heather stopped in her tracks and grinned. "Oh my God, _Oh my God!_ I forgot to tell you that Luke Churchill is back in town from California."

"What?"

"Lucas Churchill. Your summertime fling."

"Oh," Emma scoffed. "Hardly."

"Whatever, girl. _Ooh_, you know what? I should call him!" Heather laughed at her sheer brilliance. "He can meet us by the boathouse! Like a sweet little reunion, _aww_!"

"Heather, please don't."

"Already dialing." Heather had whipped out her iPhone.

"Give me that!" Emma lunged. Heather, being much shorter, ducked easily and sprinted across the path. "_Heather Smith!_"

"Hi!" Heather was gushing into the phone. "Guess who's here? _Emma_. Yeah, yeah, not shitting you. Meet us, okay? East 72nd and Park Drive North. Yes. Yeah, Loeb. _Bye_."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Aw, come on," Heather smiled. "It'll be fun!"

"No, no, _no_!" Emma was very much close to throwing a five year-old temper tantrum. In fact, she was very much persuaded to de-friend Heather Smith for all her meddling ways. And suddenly she had turned into Jack's _buddy_ and confidante? What was _that_ about?

_Oh my God. I've turned Heather into me._

Lucas showed up at the Boathouse Restaurant twenty minutes later. His dark blond hair was shorter and he looked handsome and suave in a dark leather jacket.

"Summer friends," he grinned when all three had been shown to a table. "Who told you I was in town?"

"I heard it through Robbie Martin who had heard it through Jack Knightley who had heard it through Jane Fairfax who had heard it through Dara Bates," Heather said matter-of-factly. She giggled.

Emma broke apart a piece of bread and dunked it into the dish of olive oil.

Lucas smiled and looked up across the table. "Emma, you look pretty today."

"Thanks," she said abruptly.

"Are you staying with the Westons?" Heather asked.

"Um," he shifted in his seat, "well, _no_. I've only been in town for three days. I plan to see Oliver later today."

"Who have you been staying with, then?

"I uh—the Bateses."

"Oh!" Heather smiled. Emma looked up suspiciously. "Is Jane still in the country?"

"Yes," Luke cleared his throat. "Hey, what are you guys ordering? Maybe we can split an entrée."

"I _really_ want a cappuccino."

"Heather, we just had coffee," Emma pointed out.

"Whatever."

An hour later, waiting at a street corner for a taxi, Emma couldn't fathom why she had returned home from NYU. She was slowly losing faith. The only redeeming note to this weekend was seeing her father. Jack had been a letdown and Heather's insipid babbling made her want to push her into the East River. In fact, she had full-out 30 second daydreams about it. With dramatic music. Preferably composed by John Williams with a somber violin interlude by Itzhak Perlman. Perfection.

"_Shit_," Heather interrupted her reverie. "I left my purse on the bench. Wait one second, guys."

Luke watched her disappear back inside the park, hands in his pockets. He looked at Emma, who was staring straight ahead with her jaw tensed and tight. He snorted, "You seem stressed out, Emma."

She shrugged. "It's just not my day."

"Sorry I haven't called—"

"I'm over it," Emma said quickly. Her eyebrows shot up in amusement. "In fact, I was never exactly _on_ it. You know?"

Luke rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. "You're a great girl, Emma. I want you to know that."

"I already know that, Luke, but thank you."

"—What I mean is, no hard feelings?"

"Deal." They even shook hands.

There was no extra time given for their awkward peace treaty to marinate. High, girlish screams suddenly brought reality crashing down.

Emma skipped a breath. "Oh my God, Heather."

Luke's eyes widened. He sprinted back into the park and Emma ran after him, slipping out of her flats so she could keep up. Near the bend before the boathouse, two middle-aged men had backed Heather up against a tree. The taller one held her purse high above her head and the other flashed something silver and glinting.

Frozen with shock, all Emma could think was _Really? What amateurs, in broad daylight? Bravo._

The management from the restaurant was just beginning to crowd around the balcony to see what all the ruckus was all about, when Lucas suddenly ran across the grass and sent an elbow crashing into one man's gut. A fist collided with his partner's chin and Luke cried out and shook his wrist. Two waiters in white dinner jackets crowded round and called the police. Heather, sobbing, ran to Emma and swung her arms around her neck.

"Shh, shh, shh, you're okay," Emma murmured, hugging Heather tightly. She wiped her tears away, swiftly and suddenly regretting every wretched thought that had passed through her head all afternoon. "You're okay, sweetie, you're okay. I promise."

* * *

"_So_ brave."

"So, so brave."

"Hey, let me see your hand."

Luke extended his wrist and shrugged. "I think it's just a sprain," he insisted, as Oliver examined the bandage gingerly, glasses sliding down his nose.

Taylor tutted, leaning against the kitchen wall with a cup of tea in her hands. "Please get it checked out, okay? My cousin thought she sprained her ankle horseback riding but it had been broken for two weeks."

"_Ouch_," laughed Lucas. "Will do. Still, it could be much worse. Heather's okay. Is she still shaken up?"

Emma set her mug down. "I'll go check up on her."

She found Heather sitting up on Taylor and Oliver's bed. Her brown hair had been pulled out of its ponytail and fell in disorderly waves onto her shoulders. Emma smiled sympathetically and smoothed her bangs out of her eyes. "You okay?"

"Better," Heather hugged her knees.

"Do you want a cup of tea? Tay made a fresh pot."

She shook her head and looked out the window. Her lip trembled. "Emma, I was so scared," she whispered.

"Oh, honey."

"I was! I thought to myself, what if this is it? What if this is the end? What have I done that is even _remotely_ significant? Nothing," Heather sniffed. "Oh my gosh, they could have _killed_ me."

"They didn't," Emma pointed out. "We're really lucky Lucas was there, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Heather shook her head. "I owe him my life. My hero."

"I think he's a good guy," Emma shrugged. "Questionable at times, yes. But he's…I guess he's just…"

"Complicated."

"Yes."

"God, who _isn't_?" Heather sniffled and rubbed her eyes. "It doesn't matter. He was totally my White Knight today. I can't thank him enough."

"You _tried_," Emma grinned. "It was cute."

"I could _kiss_ him."

"Maybe you should," she suggested with a smile, lying out across the bedspread. Emma pillowed her head against her arms and didn't exactly know why the suggestion came out of her mouth: "I could totally see you two together."

Heather paused and blew her nose. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed and wide. "Seriously?"

"Mmhmm." Emma marveled at the irony. "In fact, today was the most sincere I've seen Lucas Churchill in a long time."

"But don't you guys—"

Emma waved her off. "Didn't work out. There was nothing extraordinary. But _wow_, the way he ran after you. Maybe there's something special there. You never know."

"Yeah," Heather murmured, lying down next to her. "And he _is_ attractive."

"And brave."

"Yes. Very brave."

They both stared up at the white ceiling. Emma closed her eyes. Heather suddenly giggled.

"What is it?" she laughed.

Heather shook her head and just smiled.

* * *

The week that followed was hectic, at best. Emma was only able to have a full conversation with her roommate twice. Days passed in a haze of coffee cups and due papers. Thursday left her with only two classes in the afternoon. Emma used the opportunity to enjoy a morning to herself.

She washed up, changed into a cotton t-shirt and yoga pants and slipped into a pair of Nike shocks. Emma unwound her iPod and took her ID from the dresser, hesitating on whether or not she should take her cell phone. At the last minute, she decided to. Just in case.

As Emma ran a short distance from her building, she let herself drift into a stupor that was partly from The Roots, partly from the lovely autumn foliage and partly from endorphins. She didn't realize her cell phone was ringing until another jogger pointed it out to her.

Unhooking one earbud, Emma stopped near a bench and tried to catch her breath. "Hello?"

"_Wow, college life and you're already having difficulty breathing._" A beat. "_That can't be good, can it?_"

Despite welled up feelings of hurt, Emma couldn't help the grin that sprung on her face. "Jack," she laughed, wiping the sweat off her brow. "As I live and breathe!"

"_Don't speak too soon, Emma, you seem a little wheezy_."

"Oh, shut up. I was running."

She heard the smile in his voice: "_Sorry I never called you back for a proper conversation. Are you sure we live in the same city?_"

"You tell me_,_" muttered Emma, picking at a blade of grass. "Heather tells me you're going to London soon. Last I heard, that's in an entirely different _country_. So they say."

"_Don't get cute, I was _going_ to tell you_."

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda."

"_On a scale of one-to-ten, how mad are you?_"

"I'm not," Emma insisted, gathering auburn hair off the nape of her neck and into a ponytail. She cursed herself for not taking a water bottle. "So, when are you leaving?"

"_December 2__nd__. I'm staying for five months_."

"Wow," she said.

"_Hey listen, here's the real reason I'm calling—_"

"And of course there's a motive."

"_Always_," said Jack.

"Shoot."

"_Come home next weekend. Taylor and I were talking about throwing a picnic in Union Square. It's still Indian Summer and Dara will be in the city for the weekend with Jane and their mother. Well, maybe not their mother, her rheumatism is acting up again_."

"Peachy," said Emma.

"_But whatever, we'll invite the Westons. We can even invite Churchill, if you want. I've already invited Heather_."

"What's your angle?"

"_My angle_," Jack mused thoughtfully, "_my angle is that in the course of two and a half months, the people I care about the most have managed to lose each other in this hodgepodge we call life. Plus it's the last slice of good weather we're going to have in this state for awhile._"

Emma smiled and looked out across the garden in front of her. Golds and oranges melded together, framed against the morning sunshine.

"_Did I lose you?_"

"No, I'm still here," she said quietly.

"_Okay_," Jack murmured.

Emma raked a hand through her hair and shielded her eyes against the sun. She chewed on her lower lip for a couple seconds, then said, "Fine. Yes. I'll be there. What time?"

"_Saturday, one o'clock, Union Square Park. Can you handle it?_"

"I can handle anything."

"_There's the girl I know. Hey, I have to get going. Sorry. I know we have loads to catch up on_."

"Yeah," Emma said softly, kicking some dirt with her sneaker. "But I'll let you go."

"_Thanks, Em_."

"Bye, Jack."

"_Bye. Oh, and I can hear your iPod, it's still on. 'Sweet Caroline', Emma? Really?_"

"Shut up, it's on shuffle," Emma laughed. "Stop judging me."

"_I'll try. See you Saturday_."

"Okay. Bye."


	18. What Is This Feeling?

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter 18: _What Is This Feeling?_

Shakespeare once said, "Oft expectation fails, and most oft where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest; and despair most sits". Emma, a loving fan of theatre, had instantly taken the playwright's words to heart when her professor first uttered them.

But now, she couldn't help but let daydreams unfurl their pretty little landscapes in her brain. Pressing her forehead against the smooth cold plane of the car window, Emma let the scenario play out behind closed eyelids. She envisioned a sunshine dappled blue sky and a red and white pinstriped picnic blanket. Jack and Sasha would be kicking a soccer ball across the green, laughing and chasing each other into headlocks. Taylor would de-crust adorable cucumber finger sandwiches and Oliver would sneak daintily into the basket for the warm freshly baked brownies.

Emma smiled contentedly.

It was anything but.

The day was overcast and nippy, and she hadn't counted on bringing along a denim jacket. Emma shivered, crossing her arms tightly over her thermal. She found Jack (and to her immeasurable delight, _Heather_) at a Greenmarket kiosk, picking fresh fruit.

"Jack, try this," insisted Heather, handing him a peach. "Is that _not_ the best nectarine you've ever had in your life?"

Jack pressed the fruit suspiciously, sniffed it and took a bite.

"_Gross_, now it's dribbling down your chin!" Heather broke out into giggles. Jack lifted his sticky fingers and threatened to stain her purple dress; she tore away with a girlish shriek and he laughed. They hugged as a truce.

"I surrender," Jack said calmly.

Heather smiled up at him, one arm still around his shoulder.

Emma, feeling sufficiently frustrated but not entirely sure _why_, took a handful of basil leaves from the vendor beside them and politely made a purchase.

Then Heather shouted her name in surprise.

"_Slick_," Jack laughed. He split the peach and thoughtfully offered Emma half, which she accepted. "What's up, Woodhouse?"

"Oh, just dropping by," Emma shielded her eyes against the sun, "where are our favorite Newlyweds?"

"The Westons couldn't make it," Heather jutted out her lower lip childishly. "Luke's back at UCLA. But Dara and Jane are meeting us in the courtyard in half an hour."

"And you guys didn't think about calling me?" Emma asked, affronted. "Jack, you made such a big stink about _everybody_ coming over."

"So you're stuck with us two for now," Jack rationalized, dunking the peach pit into a wastebasket. "It's not a big deal. Stop being so melodramatic."

"I'm _not_," Emma said crossly.

She couldn't tell him the truth. Not with Heather here. Emma wanted their cute little post-wedding foursome, the Bette's Diner 5AM crowd. Not Heather, not Dara Bates, and _certainly_ not Jane.

"Oh, come on," cooed Heather. She threaded both arms through Emma's and Jack's, strolling past the displays of homemade soaps and soy candles, her dark brown hair whipping with the wind. "No fighting, you guys."

"We're not fighting," Jack said coolly. He wouldn't even look at her. Emma stared at her feet, feeling a cold hard knot of disappointment in her stomach.

An hour later, stretched among cold yellowing grass, Heather and Jane straightened the weathered old picnic blanket as Dara babbled on about the recipe for her famous egg salad.

"A _pinch_ of pepper," she snorted, adjusting her turquoise horn-rimmed glasses. "Just a pinch, and a cup of chopped red onions."

"I'm allergic to onions," Jack said sadly. He was sprawled out against the blanket, head cushioned against his folded hands, watching clouds. "Sorry, Dara."

"Oh, _I'm_ sorry, Jack!" Dara all but moaned, "I had _no_ idea. Wait, I can easily substitute it with beets! Should I make a new one?"

"No, no, no. Don't worry yourself," he chuckled. "There's more than enough to eat. Look at these turkey sandwiches. And chocolate chip cookies? Jesus, who played Betty Crocker?"

Jane raised her hand with a shy smile.

"Godsend," declared Jack.

She laughed and got a plate for herself from the basket. Dara beamed and crossed her legs Indian style, bangles clanging together in the pursuit of plastic utensils. Emma unwrapped a PB&J sandwich and ate it carefully, dusting crumbs off of her shirt. She shivered unconsciously, removing a windswept strand of red hair that had been pulled out of her ponytail.

"Oh honey, are you _cold_?" Dara clucked her tongue. "You'll get sick, you know. Did I ever tell you that story of when I fell into my great uncle's duck pond in Colorado when Nancy and I went ice-fishing?"

Emma took a big bite out of her sandwich just so she could avoid the temptation to say something nasty. She jumped, startled, when Jack slung his jacket over her shoulders. He rolled up his sleeves and stretched back out against the blanket, squinting against the gray sky. Emma hugged the leather jacket; it was warm from his body.

Heather, meanwhile, was thumbing through the photographs Jane had taken in India, marveling at the beautiful glossy black stills of a young boy with wide, luminous eyes. "These are breathtaking, Jane," she said. "You should have your own gallery. Are these digital?"

"Just the last two pages of the album," said Jane. "Of course, about thirty of my original shots were ruined; somebody opened the canister and exposed my film."

"Awful," commented Dara sadly, as if she had witnessed the whole terrible ordeal for herself. "Some people."

"Conspiracy," smiled Jack. "Somebody was out to get you."

"I know, right?" Jane grinned.

After talking about a photography class she had taken in Paris, Jane scooted off to look at the handmade beaded jewelry back at the market, promising to be quick. Heather gathered all the trash into a heap and straightened the edges of the red blanket.

"It's a shame that Luke couldn't be here today," she sighed.

"Hm," Jack mused, "yeah, I'd like to see a replay of his epic park heroics. I'm sad I missed it."

"Don't be a jerk," Emma scolded. "Luke saved Heather; he was every bit of a gentleman."

"She's right," Heather nodded. "He was very brave. I keep thinking about it."

"It must have been scary," said Jack.

"It was," she sighed wistfully. Heather looked off to the side and asked Jack how he was feeling.

"I'm fine."

"How's your knee?"

"Knee?" repeated Emma. "Why, what happened?"

Jack shrugged. "It acts up sometimes. Don't give me the old man jokes, I'll cry."

"Never!" Heather declared. Jack smiled at Emma and winked; it had been meant for her.

She smiled faintly. It was a second tear of the ACL and meniscus that had lost Jack a soccer scholarship during a tournament game. She remembered consoling him the evening of, when he had been too upset, lost in feelings of bitterness. They had watched old movies until two o'clock in the morning, Emma adjusting his bandages every couple of hours, helping him maneuver crutches and refilling the ice bucket. He had been more depressed than she had ever seen him, knowing that he wouldn't be able to play soccer properly again; Jack had never felt so worthless.

Emma watched him quietly. He had closed his eyes, resting back against the ground. Heather's attentions suddenly made her feel uneasy.

"Are you sure you're—"

"He said he's fine," Emma repeated. Heather looked at her.

Nobody said anything for a few minutes.

Dara suddenly interrupted, "Oh you guys, we should play a game. How about _I Spy_?"

"I love _I Spy_," said Heather, splitting a cookie. "Can I go first?"

"Go for it," Emma muttered dryly.

"I Spy With My Little Eye," Heather drawled, blue eyes darting conspicuously, "something _green_."

"The grass!" Dara guessed.

"No."

"That umbrella over there," Emma pointed.

"No."

There was a dull, lazy silence. Suddenly Heather moaned, "You guys suck. It's Jack's shirt."

"What?" Jack squinted up.

"Your shirt."

"Oh."

"It brings out your eyes."

"Thanks, Heather."

"You're welcome," she smiled. "You go next."

"What are we doing?" Jack yawned. He had dozed and rubbed his eyes blearily now. Emma concealed a grin.

"Playing _I Spy_," Dara grinned excitedly. "Your turn!"

"Mm. I spy..."

"_With my little eye_," Heather corrected urgently.

"With my little eye," laughed Jack, "something with stripes on it."

All hesitated. Dara deduced: "The sailor we passed on the way here."

"What? _No_, Dara."

"Oh."

"Jack!" Heather piped up.

"I'm not wearing any stripes," Jack told her.

"You're right," she sighed. "But you would look good in them, don't you think?"

Emma glanced at her sharply.

"Okay, clearly we all need another clue," Jack said, amused. "Let me think. It's loud. And it keeps making the same sound, over and _over_ again."

Dara began to snigger. Emma watched, annoyed, as Heather teased Jack about shared a private joke. He started to laugh.

"Something striped," Dara thought aloud. She looked down at her nautical themed scarf and chuckled, "Oh! It's me! I never shut up, too!"

"No," Jack insisted, "Dara, that's silly."

"Really?" Emma mumbled, tossing her sandwich. "I think it's dead-on."

She didn't initially realize the error of the slip in tongue. When Emma looked up to find all eyes trained incredulously on her, she grew defensive. "_What?_"

Dara laughed nervously. "She's _such_ a funny girl, you guys. I wish I were half that clever," she said quietly, fiddling with the clasp on her boot.

Heather looked down into her lap.

Jack was sitting upright now, green eyes hard and calculating.

"I'm going to go recycle our bottles," Dara suddenly announced, offering a weak smile. Heather decided to accompany her, placing an arm comfortingly around her shoulders. Emma watched them walk off together.

"Whatever," she sighed and slung her purse over her shoulder, rising to her feet. "I'm going to go, okay? I'm just not in the mood to be here right now."

"Yes, clearly you're too good for everybody here," Jack glared at her.

"You know what, Mr. Self-Righteous?" Emma snapped angrily. "Blow it up your ass."

She turned on her heel indignantly and walked through the bushes and onto the gravel path. Thirty seconds later, she felt Jack bristle beside her. Which was fine, because Emma was good at feigning ignorance; until, of course, he stepped directly in her way.

"What _I_ don't understand," Jack said angrily, "is how something like that could even come out of your mouth."

Emma brushed away her bangs impatiently. "It was a _joke_."

"It was _insulting_," Jack exploded. "What the hell has that woman ever done to _you_? Dara Bates has been nothing but a loyal family friend to you and your father."

Emma closed her mouth, subdued by the steel in his voice. She hugged her arms self-consciously.

"_Jesus_," said Jack, exasperated. "Who the _hell_ do you think you are to be that disrespectful? You know what? All your life, I've been telling people that you're a good person, that you're a _special_ girl, that you would _never_ look down your nose at anybody."

She looked away furiously, "You don't understand—"

"No, you're right, I _don't_ understand," Jack said coldly. "I don't understand how I could have been friends with you for this long, if this is what you're really like. Is that what it took, huh, Emma? A summer fling with Luke Churchill and some swanky kids at college? Well, congratulations. You've officially changed. I guess this is the girl everybody _else_ saw when I didn't."

Emma decided that he needed to leave. He needed to leave _right now_. She could feel the emotion welling up in her throat like a ticking time bomb. Her hands began to tremble.

Jack kicked a bit of gravel with the side of his shoe. Then he muttered, "I have to get back." His green eyes met hers briefly. "Bye."

"Bye."

She waited until she couldn't hear his footsteps anymore. Then Emma walked forward, finding her way past the market and out of the park. It wasn't until three blocks later that Emma burst into furious tears. The sky was darkening into bruised grays and purples and she waited out the drizzle beneath a restaurant canopy crying, ashamed and alone.

* * *

Her father didn't know she was home; he would know in the morning.

Emma sat at her kitchen table, barely touching her lukewarm tea. She had found an old pair of plaid PJ pants and a softball t-shirt in the linen closet and had piled her hair up and out of her face. She sniffled.

She resolved to visit Dara first thing in the morning and apologize. It had truly been unforgivable. Dara had only been the outlet for Emma's frustration; it was all undeserved. She had been provoked, and the result had been nasty and uncalled for.

Jack's shaming had been nastier.

She hated him. It was decided. She hated everything about him.

She hated the way he spoke so condescendingly to her. She hated how goodie-two-shoes he was. She hated his stupid smile. She hated those green eyes. She hated his voice.

Emma also hated the fact that she was still wearing his jacket. She was a sucker for oversized boy clothes. And _his_ was just so… she didn't know. Warm? Nice-smelling? Comforting?

"What the _hell_?" she moaned, resting her face into her hands. She didn't understand herself. So she took a hot shower, stole a quilt from the closet and fell asleep watching another Sci-Fi Saturday _Doctor Who_ marathon, sans Tom.

Emma dreamt of Jack that night; of a winning goal on the high school soccer field, his teammates hoisting him up on their shoulders as he beamed at her in the bleachers, tired but exuberant. She remembered the flush of pride and excitement, the overwhelming _pull_ to run down and embrace him.

Of course, it all got a little hazy when a blue police box materialized at the sidelines and a man in tweed popped out. This was when Emma woke up with a start, sweat-slicked and thoroughly convinced that she had to stop watching TV before bed.

She stared at her ceiling for two and a half hours, trying to decipher the sandstorm that was her emotions. Why had this happened? Heather, of course. But why…

Emma sat upright and flickered on her light.

Well, Heather had just been so _clingy_ and flirtatious with Jack.

And Heather just wasn't right for Jack. Surely, he knew that.

Emma bit her lip. _Oh my God, he knows that, right?_

No. No. No. There was no way. No other possibility.

Emma flopped back down to her covers, tossing her pillow over to the cold side. She closed her eyes, just as a sinister voice whispered inside her head: _You're not jealous, are you?_

"_No_," she said aloud. "No! Of course not."

What a ridiculous accusation.

Emma sat back up and hit the light switch. She stared at her pale face in the mirror, worried. "God, Emma," she muttered, "you'd think you were in love with your _best friend_ or something."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I know. You just want to _hit_ the sense into her, don'tchya? Have faith, lovelies. :)


	19. The Good Fight

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter 19: _The Good Fight_

The Grand Apology was made early the next morning in Dara Bates's floral printed sitting room over tea served in her _very best china_. This didn't exactly soothe Emma's conscience. But she was a determined girl, and the points were checked off like bullets on a grocery list:

#1: I'm so sorry, Dara.

#2: I was frustrated all morning and just _snapped_.

#3: I didn't mean what I said.

Dara was _so_ forgiving that it actually made Emma feel worse about herself. So, she attempted to apologize to _Jane_, whom she had brushed off at Union Square without even saying goodbye. But Jane was cooped up in her room with a "terrible, terrible cold".

Miss Fairfax either had a "terrible, terrible cold" a full two weeks later, or she was very skilled at screening Emma's phone calls. Emma suspected the latter, because Heather had recently gushed about their latest shopping spree.

"So, everybody hates me," Emma said glumly one Thursday afternoon, snapping her cell phone shut. Anne smiled across from her on her bunk bed and offered a Milano cookie. "Except you, Annie, you're my rock."

"Don't flirt with me now," Anne chided gently, "I am a taken woman."

Emma half-smiled and thumbed idly through the pages of her Sociology textbook. She wasn't motivated enough to study. In fact, she wasn't motivated much to do anything. "Is it bad that I've only left this bed for food all afternoon?" she asked in between bites.

"I don't judge," Anne said. She started bobbing her head to her iTunes, where Andrew Bird had magically morphed into Benny Benassi. "What do you think, are we feeling the club music?"

"Mm_yeah_."

Lying back with her eyes trained up on a massive black and white Jim Morrison poster, Emma felt restless. She hadn't spoken to Jack in over two and a half weeks. The anger was starting to diminish and hurt was sliding in instead.

"Should I call _him_?" she asked her roommate.

"Oh, that depends," Anne cocked her head, "how well do you handle the mega-awkward?"

"Terrible. Awful. Feel-like-dying."

"Then I would save that boy for your next drunk-dial," Anne advised. "Just saying."

Emma closed her eyes and rolled over to her side. She didn't want to think anymore.

She ended up falling asleep early in a pink polo and jeans, and woke up with messy curls and smudged eyeliner. It was dark and the blinds were down. Anne was snoring softly in her bunk; she probably didn't want to wake her.

Swinging her legs to the side of her bed, Emma got up and walked across the hall to the bathroom to wash her face. When she got back to the dorm, her cell phone was vibrating against the bureau. Frowning, Emma screened Heather's call. She dialed voicemail ten minutes later:

"_Oh, I wish you would pick up! Maybe you're sleeping. It's only ten-thirty though. Wow, maybe I'm being too intrusive. Am I?_" Heather had actually paused in her message, as if expecting an answer. Emma smothered a grin. "_I have to talk to you, Emma; I have developed a huge, life-orbiting crush and I am bound to secrecy! Well, not really secrecy_—"

This was the end of Voicemail #1. The second followed shortly after:

"—_I am now convinced that the boy I like, the one we talked about, likes me back! Ever since that day in the park, my feelings have just been growing and growing. And he cares about me so much! Sure, it will be tough to iron out the logistics. But we've been keeping touch, and I wanted to make sure it's okay with you because_—"

Voicemail #3. Emma sat down on the edge of her mattress to listen:

"—_I know you two used to be close, especially last summer, but you seem like you're a little distanced, and I just wanted your blessing to pursue a relationship and _yes_, I am completely convinced he feels the same way! Eee, he's just so sweet and caring and charming! Okay, call me back. No, seriously. Call me back. Bye! Oh, it's Heath_—"

Emma hit the #7 key on her keypad and erased the messages, but still sat, intrigued. She jerked her head up a moment later. Surely, Heather wasn't talking about _Lucas Churchill_! As she thought about it, a smile blossomed on her face.

It all added up.

That _day_ in the park. The fling in the summertime. The difficult logistics of making a long-distance relationship work. "Oh wow," Emma laughed. "Heather has a thing for Luke!"

Sure, it wasn't the most _natural_ couple. But maybe Heather and Luke would be good for each other. They had balancing personalities on each side of the scale. Yes, he lived in Los Angeles, but Oliver lived in NYC and he had talked about moving anyhow, _hadn't_ he?

There was also the matter of that obscure tête-à-tête with Jane Fairfax. But Jane would be moving back to Boston soon either way; it would be a non-issue.

Just as Emma got up from her bed to seek out PJ pants, her phone went off again and this time she answered without trepidation: "I got your messages," she beamed. "And I'm _thrilled_ for you, I really am."

There was a lag on the line, and Jack suddenly said: "_Uh, I don't think I left you anything on voicemail. But I'm very curious to know what you're thrilled about, if that means anything._"

Emma looked up sharply. She glanced at Anne, who was sleeping, and let herself out into the hallway and into the student lounge. She hit the lights and squinted. "Hi," she murmured. "Didn't read the Caller ID."

"_Figured as much_," Jack laughed quietly. "_So, what do you think? Can we make it up to three weeks without talking?_"

Emma didn't say anything.

"_I was just joking; I hope you didn't hang up on me. Hello?_"

"I didn't," said Emma warily.

"_Good_," he said. "_Listen, I know it's kind of late, and I'm sorry about that. But I've been walking around a lot for the past couple hours and I'm actually pretty close to you. Do you think we could meet up?_"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

Twenty minutes later, they met at Café Michelangelo, an Italian restaurant than had been around since 1927; unfortunately, they only had around 15 minutes to talk before closing.

Jack was sitting at a corner table, even though the entire café was deserted. His hair was a little disheveled from running his fingers through it (a nervous habit) and he looked a little sleep-deprived. His laptop bag was strung across the back of his chair and he turned to secure it when Emma slipped into the chair opposite.

He flinched when he saw her. "_Jesus_."

"_Emma_," she corrected with a small smile.

Jack laughed and shook his head. "Hi. You scared me."

"Sorry," Emma mumbled. She brushed some crumbs off of the tabletop. Jack watched her for a moment and neither said anything.

"Okay, so three things," Jack cleared his throat. Emma looked up. "Number 1: Sorry for being such a dick."

"_Ooh_, good place to start," Emma said, resting her chin her in hand.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Well, come on. It was justified at the time."

"You _do_ know that I've since apologized to Dara, right?"

"I heard. I'm happy you did."

"You also know that I didn't _mean_ what I said, right?" Emma went on.

"Yeah," Jack said.

Emma squared her shoulders. "I was just upset. Call it childish, but I was really anticipating just you and the Westons to be there, and Heather's not exactly my favorite person lately."

"Really? I've become good friends with her," said Jack. "In fact, I feel pretty bad for writing her off so quickly when you introduced us. She's sweet. Funny, too."

"Okay," Emma cut him off quickly. "What's Number 2?"

Jack nodded, "Number 2: I lied. I'm leaving for London in two weeks. They had an earlier opening for the internship, so I thought I had to get on that. Sooner I'm there, the sooner I get to come back."

"But Izzy and your brother—"

"If she has the baby, I'm a plane ride away," Jack said quietly. He stared at his hands. It didn't sit too well with his conscience, and she could see that it upset him.

"Number 3," Emma prompted softly.

His green eyes flickered up. "Yeah, about that," murmured Jack. "I wanted to reaffirm the apology for being a _dick_, again. I said pretty unforgiveable things to you because I was disappointed; I didn't mean them."

Emma shrugged this off, even though she felt just the opposite.

"I just thought that I was losing you somehow. I've felt that way all summer."

She watched him curiously. "What do you mean?"

He wasn't looking at her anymore. "I don't know."

Emma wanted to call him out for being so cold and distant in the past few weeks. But sitting across the table from her, staring quietly at the napkin dispenser, Jack was just her best friend again, and she didn't want to make him upset. She wanted things to just _be_.

So Emma loaded past feelings and bickering into an imaginary chest, locked it up and stored it away for a fresh start.

"Are you excited?" she asked.

"For what?" Jack looked up.

"London, stupid."

He smiled. "Yeah, I am."

"Bet you wish you could take somebody with you," Emma smirked.

"Oh, you mean like _you_?" Jack laughed, leaning back in his chair. He made a face. "No, I don't think I would be able to travel with you, Emma. You seem a little too high maintenance."

She flicked a crumb at him and he smiled.

At the street corner outside, waiting for a cab, Emma made Jack promise to meet up with her before he left. "I can see you off at the airport, too."

"No," Jack insisted, "my flight is at 6AM. I wouldn't wish that on anybody."

Emma made a face. "Jack, you aren't getting enough sleep, are you?"

"It's New York," he shrugged. "Who is?"

She shrugged and attempted a smile. Things weren't back to normal, but at least they were trying. Jack hailed a cab and it rolled to a stop by the curb. "That one's all yours."

"Thanks," said Emma. There was a moment of hesitation. Then she stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck. Jack relaxed and hugged her back tightly. Emma felt his cheek press against her shoulder. She closed her eyes and smiled. Jack was always so warm, even when it was cold out. She loved that about him. "Be safe, okay?" she murmured.

"Okay," he promised.

They pulled apart from each other and he squeezed her hand. Emma slid into the cab and rolled down the window, just as Jack turned. "Hey!"

He turned around with a smile. "What's up?"

"What do you think of this match?" Emma teased.

Jack rolled his eyes in good humor. "Hit me."

"Heather Smith and Luke Churchill."

"_Yeesh_."

Emma laughed, "You never know."

Jack leaned up against the car window thoughtfully. "Do you ever think," he started, "that Luke and _Jane_ might have—"

"Miss," the taxi driver interrupted. "The meter's running; it's your money."

"Oh," Emma said quickly. She looked at the window but Jack had already pulled away and was walking backwards. He shrugged. "Take care! I'll call you."

She watched Jack walk back as the cab pulled away. Emma sat back in her seat, puzzled. They had reconciled. The air had been cleared for better things to come. But she couldn't help feeling that letting him go had been a mistake.


	20. Dog Days Are Over

**Author's Note:** Not to toot my own horn (_toot, toot!_ I'm a tool) but I seriously enjoyed writing this chapter. Not for any obvious reasons other than character interaction. I was very much influenced by friendships today and it made me smile. :) Fun, fun! Good things to come, you guys. Thank you so much for being faithful readers and reviewers. Love you, kids. Chapter title from the Florence + the Machine song "Dog Days Are Over." She's awesomesauce.

* * *

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter 20: _Dog Days Are Over_

The first weekend of November was always a busy one for the Lau-Weston party. In Taylor's case, it marked her mother's 55th birthday, the opening of her cousin Charlotte's SoHo gallery and her Bryn Mawr Luncheon for the Arts.

As her closest friend, Emma was indispensible for these sorts of affairs.

"I just need you to let yourself in, walk Caesar around the block, fill up the water dish, check to see if nothing's on fire, and calmly leave," said Taylor patiently the week before, sliding Emma a spare key across the table. "That's all."

She pocketed it and smiled over the rim of a coffee cup. "Girl, I'm on it. _Relax_."

"Also, Luke Churchill is coming up on Sunday morning, so if ya'll can be civilized, that would be gratefully appreciated." Emma opened her mouth to speak and Taylor butted in, "I'm not asking you to _socialize_ over IHOP pancakes. But be a good girl."

Emma never did particularly warm up to the idea of disappointing her best girlfriend. Friday evening, she walked the Westons' bulldog Caesar around the street, refilled his dish with kibble and water from the tap, tidied up the stack of mail and locked up.

Saturday morning, Emma let herself into the studio apartment, the lanyard of keys clinking around her neck. She propped up her aviators and slipped out of her boots, rounding the corner to the kitchen where Caesar had lazily scooted out of a patch of sunshine.

"Hey, buddy." Emma opened the fridge and took out a carton of Tropicana. "We're _not_ telling Tay and Oliver about this, okay?"

Caesar grunted and laid his head back down on his paws.

"That's right. Bow in front of the OJ thief. I understand."

Rinsing her mug, she set it back in the cabinets and moved to take Caesar's leash off of its hook. Emma arched an eyebrow, hand suspended in the air. Under the wooden shelves, tossed haphazardly on the tiles, were a pair of men's boots and red peep toe pumps. And a leather satchel.

"_Definitely_ not something Taylor would wear. Too indie," muttered Emma, trying it on for size. "What do you think, Meatball?" she blew kisses at her canine friend, who didn't particularly like his new nickname. He stared at her with apathetic dark chocolate eyes. "_Coach_," Emma whistled, checking the label. "Maybe it was a gift."

A muffled giggle suddenly caught Emma's attention. She looked back at Caesar and then to the corridor. "_What_?"

Padding softly into the living room, Emma peeped around the corner into the hall. It was completely deserted. She pulled back apprehensively. Caesar looked onward with his bored, doe-eyed stare. "Don't judge."

Without warning, the bedroom door suddenly flew open. A grinning and carefree Jane Fairfax walked out with two empty coffee mugs.

Emma screamed. Jane screamed. Then they _both_ screamed. The cups dropped and shards scattered across the wooden floorboards.

"_What the fuck—!_"

"_Oh my God!_"

Of course, both ladies lunged to collect the shards at the same time, which caused a head-on collision reminiscent of a _Three Stooges_ sketch.

Jane staggered back with a hand clapped over her forehead. "_Ow!_"

"_Son of a bitch!_" Emma swore.

"Babe, what's going on?" Luke stumbled into the corridor. His brown eyes widened in shock. "Oh. _Whoa_."

It only took a matter of seconds for Emma to pull a Scooby and collect all the evidence together. After all, it wasn't rocket science. Jane was standing there with flushed cheeks, tousled dark curls and an oversized blue oxford that brushed against her pale bare legs.

Luke stood awkwardly, bare-chested in boxers.

"Pajama party, you guys, what the _hell_? A. It's not Sunday. B. Sexy time with Jane? _Seriously_?"

Jane, horrified, had turned bright crimson.

"We need to talk," said Luke.

"Um no, that's okay," Emma shook her head in disgust. "I'm going to go walk Meatball. Caesar. _Caesar_. That's what I'm here for. You two have fun. The coffee machine is up and running."

She all but bolted into the kitchen and took the dog's chain off of the peg. Caesar blinked up dolefully at her, unmoving. "Buddy, help me out here, be a doll," Emma whined.

"Emma," Luke blocked her in the doorway. "Just hear me out!"

"Would you at least put on a shirt? Here." Emma tossed him one of Taylor's cardigans, draped over a kitchen chair.

Luke held it up by its sleeve. "This is _tiny_."

"Clearly," Emma passed a hand over her eyes. "Pants, please? I'll wait."

He nodded and reappeared thirty seconds later with his jeans on. "Look, this all happened so fast," Luke said breathlessly, zipping up his fly. "I was supposed to come in on Sunday, but I wanted to spend time with Jane."

"So you lied to Oliver."

"Well, yes, but—"

"And in their _bed!_" Emma moaned, "Luke, that's disgusting, they gave you a guest bedroom and you couldn't even make it _across the hall!_"

"I know, I know."

"_I'm_ not changing the sheets, Churchill."

"Emma, about Jane—"

"Jeez, don't bother," Emma muttered, hooking Caesar's leash to his collar. "I ignored _really_ obvious signs since that evening in the café. You guys were way too into each other and dating other people. Well, sort of. It happens—"

"Jane is my ex-girlfriend from Boston U," blurted Luke.

Emma's mouth opened dumbly.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Jane and I fell in love years ago when she was the lead singer of our band; I was the guitarist. The band had a feud and we broke up. I moved. But through Oliver, I had _no_ idea I would see her again in New York. And then…well…" Luke hesitated, "old flames die hard."

"Habits," Emma corrected irritably, "old _habits_ die hard."

"Oh." Luke squared his shoulders. "You have to know, I couldn't help myself; I never really stopped having feelings for Jane. I _love_ her. We've reconnected, closer than ever."

"Evidently, yeah."

"I don't want you to think that I used you," said Luke sincerely. "Emma, I really _really_ liked you. You're an incredible girl. But the timing wasn't right."

"I just can't believe you've been lying to the Westons, to our _friends_, for this long."

"I know. I lied to you, too. I lied about my feelings. I've been a prick about this whole business."

"No shit."

Jane meandered into the room silently. She looked pale. Also, she had taken the liberty to put on her dress, which Emma expressed her gratitude for.

"I'm sorry you had to find out like this," said Jane. "I'm ashamed, I really am. But I've been struggling with my feelings for Luke for awhile—I want you to know that I'm sorry for any animosity between us. I was—well, I was _bitter_."

"Jealous," Luke chuckled.

"You're being an asshole," Jane told him pointedly.

"Sorry."

Emma took small comfort in the fact that Jane actually _had_ been screening her calls; she hadn't been paranoid. Who knew that sweet-tempered Jane Fairfax had been blazing with jealousy all this time?

"You know what?" Emma said calmly. "As long as you guys tell the Westons about all the _secret shenanigans_, I'm willing to take the high road and try on the water-under-the-bridge attitude. Okay?"

"Okay," Luke beamed widely. He spread his arms wide for a hug.

Jane slapped his hand down. "_Inappropriate_."

"Yeah, I don't think we're there yet," Emma chided.

Churchill's arms dropped weakly to his side.

* * *

Emma spent the cab ride home in a state of disillusionment. She wasn't exactly _hurt_—she hadn't been in love with Luke, though she might have fancied herself to be at one time or another—but the situation itself left a bad taste in her mouth.

It wasn't until they reached congested traffic near Lexington that Emma reached a dreadful epiphany. She thought of Heather and rested her head on the back of the driver's seat. _Poor girl_.

The first boy wasn't good enough.  
The second boy was a pig.  
The third was in love with another girl.

"Strikeout."

Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she opened it with a deep sigh.

Jack had sent her a iPhone photo of a Paddington Bear, with a caption: _Welcome to JKnightley's edition of _**Pick Your Souvenir**_! This or a shot glass? Or Hugh Dancy? I'm sure he's around here somewhere_.

She laughed softly and texted back: _I just want you to know that I really miss you_.

Two minutes, and it vibrated again: _Everything OK? :(_

No.

Emma sought Anne's advice over sushi that evening. She discussed the incident as her roommate listened intently and poured soy sauce into her dish, trapping a spicy tuna roll between a pair of chopsticks. "It seems to me," said Anne thoughtfully, "that Lucas might have held onto your relationship longer than necessary for that added perk of lighting a fire under Jane's butt. Why do I feel like he _enjoyed_ the jealousy?"

"Because he probably did," mumbled Emma. "He's an attention-whore. Do you know what the worst part is? I am _still_ incapable of despising this guy. It's that damned earnestness. I _know_ he loves her. That's the one part of him, that 2% error mark, that isn't completely made of bullshit. I should have known on our first date; he started talking about his ex-girlfriend like, three blocks away from the restaurant. Why didn't I see _that_ red flag?"

"Gorgeous boys induce ignorance," Anne shrugged casually. "It's just the way it is. Don't feel bad."

"How do I break this to Heather?"

"Like a Band-Aid," she grinned. "Wham_pow_! Clean off."

Emma's brow creased. "Sweetie, why do you sound so happy about this?"

Anne straightened her beanie. "I don't know. I'm secretly a bitch."

Heather was in town the weekend after. Emma had dreaded delivering the news all day, feeling nervous butterflies ricochet in her stomach all throughout dinner. Her father had to ask her twice to pass the mashed potatoes. As they had tea outside on the stoop, Emma listened quietly as Heather recounted the four some weeks that had passed between them. She had gotten a haircut, and her long dark locks were hacked off for a chic, shorter layered look.

Emma had to smile. Between the confidence, the hair and some cute new clothes, Heather Smith seemed to be really coming into her own. She was proud of her. So, she ventured to ask the inevitable, with low but somewhat hopeful expectations:

"Anybody catch your eye on campus?" Emma asked, stirring her tea absently.

Heather chuckled, "Oh, Emma. You know me, I'm a consistent girl. When somebody catches my heart, it's _theirs_ for a long, long time. Nothing has changed since I called you. Of course, the long-distance relationship still continues to be a problem. But lots of couples can make that work, can't they?"

"Heather," Emma started weakly, "I'm—I am not so sure that he feels that way about you. I think—_I'm so sorry_—I think there's somebody else."

Heather's forehead wrinkled. She giggled, "That's so silly! He would tell me. He's one of the most _honest_ people I know."

"You don't know that many people, do you?"

"Oh, Emma."

"Heather, I caught him with Jane. Jane _Fairfax_. They're together. They _have_ been together. I caught them in that really intimate, morning-after, post-sex _Let's have breakfast, honey!_ scene; I just about died of awkward." Emma closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. _Band-Aid. Clean Off_. "I'm truly, very, unbelievably sorry because I know that you felt so strongly for him and I _hate_ that this has happened to you again."

Heather was staring at her reflection in her tea. "Jane Fairfax?" she mumbled, looking up. "Emma, that's impossible. Jack never had any interest in Jane."

Emma frowned. "I wasn't talking about _Jack_."

"Who, then?"

"Lucas Churchill. _Duh_."

Heather tilted her head. "Emma, why would I care a dollar's worth about Luke Churchill of all people?"

"_Why?_" Emma mocked abruptly. "Heather, you've been _obsessing_ over this boy for weeks now. I have like, _seventeen_ voicemails to prove it."

"Bahaha!" Heather actually leaned forward to slap her knees. "Oh my gosh. That's hilarious. All this time, you thought I was talking about Luke Churchill? That I was in love with _Luke Churchill_?"

"Aren't you? You were practically writing poetry after that _incident in the park_, going on and on about how _heroic_ he was and sweet and charming—girl, we have to be talking about the same person here," Emma laughed nervously. "I don't understand why you're looking at me like that. No, seriously. _Why are you looking at me like that?_"

Heather drummed her fingers against her mug thoughtfully. An understanding smile pulled at her mouth. "Wow, that's messed up. I see how that happened. Because Luke was all _dashing_ when he saved me from those muggers in Central Park, right?"

"Exactly!"

"No, Emma, I was _talking_ about that day in Union Square," the brunette corrected. "And as far as saving me goes, I was referring to _this_ boy's kind, goodhearted interference at the reception of the Weston wedding, when he asked me to dance and saved me from the _total_ humiliation of seeing Ethan and Abigail together for the first time."

Emma sat in thought for thirty seconds, absorbing all this. Then she got to her feet. "Whoa," she laughed, "Heather. You're not serious—tell me this is a joke. This isn't—"

"Jack," Heather said calmly.

"_No_."

It was said with such conviction, with such heaviness, that all confidence Heather had brought to the table suddenly wavered under the heat of Emma's stare.

"No," Heather echoed with a raised eyebrow. "Emma, I'm not exactly _asking_ for your permission, am I?"

Emma crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly _angry_ beyond all belief. "Heather, I think that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard you come up with. In all honesty. This takes the cake. Congratulations."

"Ex_cuse_ me?" Heather huffed, getting to her feet.

"Well, seriously, to _convince_ yourself that Jack has feelings for—"

"Why _wouldn't_ he?" Heather said emotionally. Emma pursed her lips. "God, you're so presumptuous, Emma. You haven't seen us together, there's chemistry! Fireworks, even! You know what? You're just afraid of losing him. You're _jealous_. What, Jack doesn't deserve to be happy? _I_ don't deserve to be happy?"

"You—"

"What, I'm not good enough for your best friend, is that it?" Heather criticized sharply.

"That's not what I _meant_," Emma emphasized.

"Just because _you_ are lonely and unhappy doesn't mean you need to chain up the rest of your _friends_ to be that way, too," Heather shot back. "You don't even know _how_ to have a lasting relationship. You screw up everybody else's around you, too! So why should I take _any_ of your advice at this point?" she said, brushing back tears. "I finally have a chance to love somebody, and he might truly love me back. And I'm _not_ going to let you screw _this_ up for me, too!"

Emma watched, open-mouthed, as Heather slung her bag across her shoulder and marched fitfully down the sidewalk to hail a cab at the corner of the street. She pinched the bridge of her nose and leaned against the railing. The yellow taxi pulled slowly away from the shoulder, Heather's dark hair visible in the rear windshield.

* * *

Jack, for the first time in his life, had an actual _flat_mate in London. The lingo had him irrationally excited and if he could, Jonathan Knightley would have reached inside his Blackberry to shake his little brother senseless.

"_Dude_," scorned Jonathan over the phone, "_you have a roommate in New York, too. Robbie Martin. I've met him, he makes excellent stir-fry._"

"No," Jack corrected, smirking, "no, Robbie is my _room_mate. I have a _flat_mate now; we share a _flat_."

"_Some days I wonder how the hell you got yourself on the Ivy League path. Seriously. I've met brighter trained monkeys_."

"Jonny, you're so _cute_ when you take on the disparaging older-brother-douchebag tone," tutted Jack, sitting on the edge of his bed. It was early morning in England, and he was still a little jetlagged. A ginger-haired boy stuck his head in the doorway, rattling an empty coffee pot. "Oh yeah, coffee would kick ass. Thanks, Gustav."

Gustav clicked his tongue and left to the kitchenette.

"_Who's Gustav?_" asked Jonathan suspiciously.

"My _flat_mate," Jack massacred the British accent. "He's a student, I'm sharing his loft. But he's not from England. I think he's Czech. Maybe. Probably. Or _Slavic_. Or something. I don't know, we don't talk too much. He just keeps insisting on making breakfast for me and he _really_ likes orange marmalade. It's weird. But I'm just pretty flattered that I have a dude willing to butter my toast."

"_That doesn't sound sexual at all._"

"Shut up, we're bromantic. There's a difference."

Jonathan snorted softly. "_I hope you're going to send us postcards. Izzy collects them, you know. Has about five photo albums filled._"

"I promised I would," Jack said, rummaging through his suitcase with his phone pressed against a shoulder. "How is Izzy? Bigger than the moon?"

"_Yeah. Honestly, I'm a little concerned. She's so uncomfortable lately. Practically straining with this pregnancy. I feel like she's going to go into labor one of these days, and I'm terrified. First of all, because we're a couple weeks early. But secondly, I don't want it to happen at a completely inconvenient time when I'm not by her side_."

"I don't think you can control that, Jon."

"_Doesn't mean that it doesn't _not_ suck_," his older brother sighed gloomily. "_Got to say, I'm excited and scared shitless_."

"You're going to make an incredible father. And if you absolutely blow at it, Izzy can always divorce you and marry me for emotional support."

"_She probably would,_" Jonathan laughed, "_you've always been the supportive girlfriend guy. Too many chicks flocking to you for advice all throughout high school._"

"Yeah," muttered Jack, "didn't help that you spread the rumor around that I was gay."

"_With help from Emma_."

"Oh, how could I forget?" Jack chuckled, folding a sweater into a drawer. "That girl drove me crazy. Still does, incidentally."

"_Come off it_," Jonathan teased. "_Everybody knows that you have had a soft spot for Emma Woodhouse since you two were kids. I remember an entire week of your second grade where you insisted on holding hands every day on the walk back from the bus stop_."

"How do you _remember_ shit like that?"

"_I'm just awesome_."

"Oh."

"_I think this is the longest conversation I've had over the phone in my lifetime. I feel like a girl._"

"Jon, I carry your heart in my heart."

"_Screw you_."

Jack laughed. He sat back down on his mattress and hesitated. There was a topic he had been trying all morning to bring up, but was stuck in his throat. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced out the window, where the sky was unsurprisingly overcast and cloudy.

"_Hey, Emma came up to DC a couple weeks ago. Seemed a little quiet—not herself,_" Jonathan said conversationally.

Jack frowned. "Is she okay?"

"_I think so. Izzy mentioned something but I accidentally tuned her out because I was watching a rerun of the Klitschko vs. Chambers boxing match on HBO and it was all kinds of intense_."

"Who won?"

"_Kitschko, hands down, left hook to the forehead_."

He half-smiled and rubbed his eyes. "I should call her. I've been texting her, but Emma can be really flaky with texts. Or," Jack laughed at the irony, "sometimes she'll be completely unnerving and text you back when you're busy, out of the blue, first time in _weeks_."

"_Drives you crazy_."

"Yeah," Jack mumbled.

"_Hey, don't get all pissed off at me here_," Jonathan started with trepidation, "_but…you and Emma. Just friends, right?_"

"Right."

"_You answered that suspiciously fast_."

"Jonathan—"

"_Whatever, man. It's none of my business. I was just wondering_." Jack chuckled, "_I don't know, I might have been secretly pulling for you guys since high school. You'd be cute. But if it's a brother-and-sister dynamic, why ruin that, right? Is there some other girl?_"

"Hey, I got to go. Gustav's calling me into the kitchen."

"_Oh ho, convenient timing_," Jonathan sing-songed.

Jack rolled his eyes and smirked. "Let me know about the Woodhouse sisters, 'kay? News of labor is always appreciated."

"_You know I'm good for it. Take care, little brother_."

* * *

There comes a time in a young woman's life when she realizes that she has been a complete and utter idiotic mess of a girl.

This beam of clarity (also commonly referred to as _the lightbulb moment_) eluded Emma Woodhouse for a full three weeks, in which life resumed at a sluggish and melancholy pace and she found herself retreating into uncharacteristic bouts of silence and antisocial behavior. Anne, a fan of spontaneity, had pulled a Michael J. Fox and secured iPod earbuds on Emma's pillow early one Saturday morning, blasting Van Halen so effectively that the redhead jolted out of bed screaming.

"You smell, your homework is piling up and you haven't gone running in two weeks," Anne chirped. "Get on that, honey."

So Emma did, because Anne Madeleine Foster was practically her surrogate university mom, or SUD. She called her Suds that week, just for kicks.

It was only after a study session in the library and a vigorous run in the park that Emma reached her _Aha!_ moment. It occurred in the shower, when she was lathering shampoo into her hair. The revelation made her burst out from behind the glass doors and onto the towel mat of the girls' locker room, soapy auburn hair dripping in rivulets. "Oh my God," Emma said out loud, gray eyes wide. "Jack. _I_ want Jack."

"Girl, put some clothes on!"

"Sorry, Nadia."


	21. Brothers and Sisters

_Warning:_ Lots of F-bombs. (Yay!)  
_Warning #2:_ I've had too much coffee today. Just, it is what it is.

* * *

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter 21: _Brothers and Sisters_

There is something undeniably romantic about New York City in the fall. The gold and red foliage, the smell of sharpened pencils, curling up by the fireside, caramel apples being sold by the dozen. It's a wonderful season to fall in love.

Which was exactly what motivated Emma to _leave_. On a rainy Thursday evening, she raced around the dorm packing belongings into a beaten-up suitcase, a train ticket for Union Station stuck in her mouth. Anne watched her pack over the top of a _Nylon_ magazine.

"Remind me again why you're going?"

"I just need to get away for the weekend," the redhead explained. "Izzy's very far along with the pregnancy; there's no doubt in my mind that she needs some help getting around. Or, excuse me, _waddling_ around."

Anne wasn't distracted by the joke. She closed her magazine. "Girl, what are you running away from?"

Emma crossed her arms defensively. "I'm not running _away_, Anne."

Anne swung her legs to the side of her bunk and tossed the magazine onto the bureau. "Washington DC?" she asked skeptically.

"I have _family_ there."

"Okay, all right. Don't get huffy."

Emma pursed her lips and continued folding, avoiding her roommate's eyes. Certain matters were _private_, despite the fact that she and Anne had grown close in the last few months.

Well, that was her cover anyway, a method of _justification_. In reality, Emma knew that she was better off shutting up about her feelings. After all, speaking about them would mean the inevitable—that they were real.

Friday morning, Emma boarded the train from Penn Station to Union and spent three hours locked in a distraction bubble. It consisted of iPod playlists, highlighting text and reading an old hand-me-down edition of _Doctor Zhivago. _It was a beautiful old book with gold titling and a crackled spine; Oliver had bought it from a used bookshop as a Christmas present two years back. Emma wasn't able to get into it now. Plus, Lara Antipova was pissing her off.

But she couldn't help herself. No willful distraction could really pry her thoughts away from Jack.

Which was _ridiculous. _Because this was _Jack_, for God's sake. Jack was practically her surrogate _brother_. Jack was the little boy she had eaten _mud pies_ with.

Jack was also the boy she had thought about in the shower.

"Oh my God, I thought about Jack in the shower."

As Emma sat there, distractedly fiddling with her braid, she considered the fact that maybe it was simply jealousy; she didn't want to lose her best friend to _Heather_, of all people. Or Jane. Or anybody.

_Anybody but me…_

"No," Emma murmured. There was nothing about Jack Knightley that Emma personally found appealing.

Except for that occasional charming half-smile.  
And those exceptionally bright green eyes.  
And the way he _hugged_ her, and how she felt this warm flush fan through her face and neck and crawl deliciously to her fingertips and—

"This isn't working out," Emma mumbled darkly.

* * *

Izzy adored her little sister. Actually, Izzy adored everything. With an added cocktail of pregnancy hormones, adoration could quickly bypass into moody tears. Which was why she started sniffling the moment the front door swung open and Emma shuffled in with her suitcase and backpack. Izzy immediately engulfed her in a hug, which wasn't the easiest of tasks seeing as she had gone and swallowed an entire planet.

"Izzy, I told you I was coming."

"I know—I'm just _so_ happy!"

As it turned out, the Knightley townhouse was in sub-par condition. Hectic work hours constantly pulled Jonathan to the office and Izzy's method of travel consisted of migrating from the bedroom to the couch and back again. Her neighbor Mrs. Cole was generous enough to make weekly shopping trips at Whole Foods, which meant the fridge was well-stocked. But the entire place had to be scrubbed clean and Izzy could barely see her toes, let alone bend over for the bottle of Windex in the cabinets below the kitchen sink.

Emma was happier than a bird with a french fry.

Izzy fell asleep on the sofa an hour later, curled up with a quilt and _Gilmore Girls_ on mute. Emma changed into yoga capris and an old Hanes t-shirt, tied her red hair into a knot at the top of her head and washed all the dishes that had been spilling out of the sink and onto the counter. Then she scrubbed the cabinets with baking soda, vacuumed the dining room rug, made the beds and aired out the bedrooms, scrubbed the bathroom floors, collected all dirty mugs, recycled all empty bottles, cleared away dusty magazine stacks, and finished with Izzy's laundry. And not _once_ did she think about Jack.

Except when she found his postcard sitting on top of the mail stack.

"Fuck."

"Why does it smell clean?"

Izzy was up. She was sitting on the sofa, groggy, with her blonde hair in a state of elegant bedhead.

"It's Clorox. But don't worry, I used the all natural green one without all those harsh chemicals. Mostly because it's the only one you own," Emma said matter-of-factly, folding a cardigan into the laundry basket. "And I'm glad you're up, because I'm all sorts of _starving_."

"Oh sweetie, did you clean up?"

"Little bit."

"I have to feed you now."

"Little bit," Emma repeated. She lifted up a pair of panties and grinned. "I like that you have Spiderman boyshorts."

Izzy blushed. "Give me those!"

"Get them!"

"If I weren't _pregnant_—"

"—I would still be faster than you," Emma finished. Izzy threw a cushion at her and she ducked, laughing, "I forgot you played softball!"

"Don't underestimate me," Izzy smirked. Her eyes lit up a second later, "Oh my God, can we make _cookies_?"

"For dinner?" Emma paused.

"Yeah!"

"No."

Izzy pouted.

They did end up making tomato basil pasta and a huge summer salad (in the fall, no less). It was four in the afternoon.

"So, what happens when Jonathan comes home?" Emma asked politely, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

"What do you mean?" asked Izzy.

"Well, we're having dinner now and he doesn't get back until 7:30."

"Silly," laughed Izzy, "then we have _second_ dinner."

"_Seriously?_"

"Seriously!"

"Can I live here?" Emma whined.

"Maybe this is why I'm so fat," Izzy said, disgusted. She pushed herself away from the table and sat sulking at her round belly.

"Stupid, you're _pregnant_."

"And _fat_. Oh God, and the stretch marks. _The stretch marks_."

Emma rolled her eyes. "I'll buy you some cocoa butter when you pop this kid out."

"_Ho ho_," Izzy said sarcastically, "there will be no _popping_. It's a _child_, not a pimple."

"That was beautiful."

After dinner, Emma loaded up the dishwasher and let it run. She sat on the couch with Izzy, who was flipping through an old tabloid rag. Emma let her sister prop her legs over her lap. She rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. "I hate Jennifer Lopez," Izzy said bitterly, throwing down the _OK! _magazine onto the coffee table. Emma looked up.

"Why?"

"Baby weight, my ass! She's a _stick_."

"You're such a _bitter_ pregnant woman," Emma laughed. "I kind of like it after witnessing roughly twenty years of Pushover Izzy."

"Mm," sighed Izzy. "Jon's not my biggest fan lately."

"I'm sure he's just stressed with work and the baby coming."

"Oh really, is _he_ the one about to push it out of his vagina?"

"Jon has a vagina?" asked Emma.

"Jon _is_ a vagina."

"_Izzy!_"

"We've been fighting," Izzy sulked.

"I picked up on that. But you know what, I would hate you both a little if it was all smooth sailing. It's nice to know you're a _human_ couple."

"He's just too controlling," Izzy explained. "Sometimes he talks to me like I'm a two year-old. Like I don't _understand_ what dietary supplements I'm supposed to take. And then I tell him that he's not my father, and he says something rude like _Thank God,_ and then I throw a sponge at him (or a rolling pin, but that was one time). And then he leaves the house for 15 minutes, and then I cry, and then he comes back, and then we kiss. Or have sex, but we haven't had sex in months, but the point is that we make up and then the next day, one of us opens up a whole _new_ can of worms and it's Shit-storm #2, D-Day edition."

Emma chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. Her eyebrows were up.

"I do _love_ him," Izzy added.

"Of course," Emma said too quickly.

"Jesus," Izzy sighed. "Tell me about _your_ life. What's up with school?"

"Oh, you know. This and that."

"You've been saying that since high school."

"Not much has changed," Emma pointed out.

"Bullcrap."

"You've been saying _that_ since high school," teased Emma.

Izzy grinned and patted her hand. "We are creatures of habit. Have you heard back from any of your friends? Besides Jack, I mean. I know he's away in London, we keep getting postcards. He actually remembered that I collect them, he's so _thoughtful_."

"Yeah," Emma mumbled. "I mean _no_, I haven't really kept in touch. Nora came up to visit about a month ago from Rhode Island. I see Taylor as often as I can."

"What happened to that boy you were seeing?"

"Luke?" Emma snorted, remembering the infamous run-in at the Weston apartment. She wondered if Luke had told Oliver and Taylor about Jane yet; she would have to track him down if he didn't. "_So_ over. He's moved on. As for the others, Heather, the girl I became really close to over the summer—we kind of had a falling out."

"Dang. What happened?" asked Izzy.

Emma considered telling the standard white lie. But she didn't want to shut up anymore. It was _exhausting_. "To be honest," Emma hesitated, "she told me she liked Jack."

"Jack," Izzy blinked, "what, _our_ Jack, Jack Knightley?"

"Yeah."

"Does he…?"

"Have feelings for Heather?" Emma shrugged. "I was convinced he didn't. Maybe because I only saw what I wanted to see. But I've been thinking about it for awhile now, and looking back, he acts so _genuinely_ in front of her. And he's not a bullshit guy—I think he really does care about her. He's so good to her," she looked down and mumbled, "he's good _for_ her."

Izzy listened quietly. Emma looked up when she felt her hand close around hers. "Honey."

Emma shook her head. "I know. _I know_."

"It's written all over your face," Izzy laughed, astonished.

"What is?"

"You have feelings for Jack! I mean, don't get me wrong, it took you long enough to get there," her older sister grinned.

"I've been jealous of girls _all_ summer. Because of _this_ douchebag."

"He's a very cute douchebag."

"Oh my God, he's adorable."

Izzy giggled in delight. Emma buried her face in her hands and moaned. "What am I going to _do_?"

"For starters, you don't know if he likes Heather as much as he's letting on," Izzy said.

"He _does_," Emma sighed. "And you know what? He's going to come back from London and they're going to get together and I should be _happy_ for them."

"But you won't be."

"No, of course not, I'm going to silently hope that she gets hit by a cab." Emma sat up straight with worried gray eyes, "Wow, this is bringing out the worst in me."

"_Emma_," Izzy cautioned.

"Izzy, I can't _say_ anything. I am through interfering with the happiness of others."

"Even yours?" she challenged.

Emma grew quiet. "My happiness is considerably less important to me than Jack's is."

A slow smile spread out on Izzy's face. "I think you love him," she said knowingly.

"Of course I love him. I mean, I always _have_ loved him." Emma's brow creased, "I just never knew that that love could hit somewhere outside the boundaries of like, platonic brother-sister wedgie affection."

"Which is the most romantic kind of affection!" Izzy giggled.

"Seriously!" Emma grinned. "Hey, promise me you won't say anything to Jonathan? I know he's your husband. But he's got the biggest mouth."

"Emma honey, I _promise_. You have my word."

* * *

To say that Izzy had _tried_ to keep the secret would have at least racked her up some brownie points. But no, it was eleven o'clock at night that Saturday when the beans spilled. She was in the kitchen, stirring cake batter with Jonathan hovering near and stealing bites. She swatted at his knuckles with a wooden spoon and he pulled away, laughing.

"Sorry, honey."

"_Shhh_," Izzy whispered. "Keep your voice down. Emma is asleep on the living room couch."

"I'm happy your sister is here," Jonathan said, more quietly this time.

"Mm, I agree."

"Second dinner is more enjoyable now."

"It is, isn't it? Emma makes the best steamed salmon."

"I think Emma has calmed you down this weekend."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Izzy demanded shrilly.

"Nothing, darling, nothing," Jonathan said, mollified.

"By the way, she's in love with your brother," Izzy added breezily, lifting the spoon to her lips.

"_What?_"

Izzy carefully removed the batter spoon from her mouth. She sighed heavily. "Oh, fuck."

"Did you just say fuck?" Jonathan asked, all big brown eyes.

"My water just broke."

He stepped back and looked down at the kitchen tiles. "Fuck."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I know. No Jack. _Boo!_ Trust me, the next two chapters? It's go-time. This is the calm before the storm. Plus, I'm having a huge sibling affection moment today, so I hope you enjoyed that. :) Oh, also I got bored a couple of weeks ago and made a cast list for the characters on my Tumblr. It was right before graduation. Judge me.


	22. Well, Yes

**Author's Note: **One legitimate chapter left after this one, and then an epilogue. Unless, I'm wrong. I could be wrong. I'll try not to be wrong. But I'm probably not wrong. Enjoy! :)

* * *

_But everything inside you knows_  
_There's more than what you've heard_  
_There's so much more than empty conversations_  
_Filled with empty words_  
_And you're on fire_  
_When he's near you,_  
_You're on fire_  
_When he speaks_

"On Fire" by Switchfoot

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter 22: _Well, Yes_

At precisely 8:37am on November 14th, little Gabriel Avis Knightley took his first big healthy lungful of air, decided he didn't like all these assholes invading his space, and promptly began screeching his first baby banshee wail. The events that preceded this momentous infant introduction included a turbulent minivan ride ("Breathe, sweetie, breathe!" and its corresponding "_Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!_"). Also, numerous shaky coffee runs and 11 hours of labor. The last 15 minutes had been the _worst_ and Emma, wide-eyed in purple scrubs, would have burst out of the delivery room had Izzy's hand not numbed her fingers into cold, lifeless metacarpals.

Still, she had always been a girl to appreciate the little things. As the nurses tended to and cleaned up little Gabe, Emma turned her head towards the bed where Jonathan sat beside Izzy. In that moment, there was too much love to be conveyed in a single sentence; the glances exchanged said enough. Emma had a sneaking suspicion that no rolling pins would be hurled across the room any time soon. At least, not for the next 24 hours. Besides, who had that kind of _energy_?

With Gabe soon nestled against his mother's breast, Emma felt a sudden wave of emotion that surprised her in its impact. It surprised Izzy too, who raised her head, did a double-take, and exclaimed, "Honey, are you _crying_?" The youngest Woodhouse shook her head vehemently and hiccoughed, a hand pressed against her mouth. That evening, her father's emotional weepy phase would put hers to shame, but for now, the redhead could not say that she was carved out of stone.

Monday evening, Emma found herself curled up in the armchair beside Izzy's bed, the pale washed-out light from the floor lamp illuminating the same _Vanity Fair_ article she had read about thirteen times now. Her sister was sleeping soundly, her blonde frizzy ringlets pushed out of her face and into a loose ponytail. Jonathan cooed softly to his son and walked slowly around the room with a perfected baby bounce. She grinned, watching as he tugged Gabe's little blue beanie into place; it was too sweet and tender of a gesture.

Jonathan glanced up at her. A corner of his mouth pulled up into a smile. "You know I handed all your bags to your dad, right?"

"Yeah," Emma whispered. "He took them to the hotel." She yawned and closed her magazine.

He whispered, "You should go get some sleep, Em."

"So should _you_," she fired back.

Jonathan smirked. "That was cute, that miniature exchange right there."

"Yeah, I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"You're downright adorable," he said dryly.

Emma started to laugh and covered her mouth.

Jonathan looked up again and then whispered, "Hey, Em?"

"Yeah?"

"Back at the house, _eons_ ago, Izzy mentioned something that—"

Her cellphone vibrated and Emma sighed, digging it out of her pocket. "I'm sorry." Jonathan pursed his lips together and nodded.

She quietly slipped out of Izzy's room and into the hallway, where the bright lights and yellow walls ambushed her senses. Emma rubbed her eyes blearily and flipped open her phone. "Hi, Daddy." A smothered yawn, then: "No, everything is fine. Yes, I know where our hotel is. No, Jonathan knows that. I don't want to leave just yet. No. Okay, I'll see you for breakfast. Bring bagels." She smiled and rubbed the toe of her sneaker against a linoleum tile. "Yeah, poppyseed. That's my favorite. Love you, too."

Emma hung up and slid down the wall until she was sitting, hugging her knees to her chest. The truth of the matter was that she should have already been back in New York City. But she and her father had stretched the weekend a little more for Izzy and the baby; they would be on a train back to the city tomorrow afternoon. And Emma, for once in her life, did not have any desire to leave Washington D.C. There was _peace_ here, and a lovely family, and a closeness she had not felt in a long time.

_Dog-tired? Okay, fine_. But at the same time, Emma felt oddly mellow and happy. She smiled and ran her fingers through her auburn hair, untangling the messy French braid she had woven six hours ago. She rested her head back against the wall and trained her eyes upward at the ceiling.

After a little while, her chin dipped low to her chest and Emma closed her eyes, lulled by the hum of the radiator. It was a muddied stage between sleep and consciousness—sleep hadn't come easy the last 48 hours. Minutes passed before she felt somebody gently shake her shoulder. Emma groggily lifted her head and rubbed her eyes again. "What?" she mumbled, expecting Jonathan to hover over her with some wisecrack about narcolepsy. Of course, then he would thoughtfully offer up the pull-out armchair for _her_ to sleep on instead of him. Because Jonathan was legitimately good-hearted.

But instead, Jack was smiling warmly at her, crouched down low. "_You_ look comfy."

She gasped. Instinct moved before logic, so Emma found her arms wrapped around his neck in a hug before she could feel the blush move across her cheeks. Luckily, Jack didn't know the difference. He laughed and hugged her back. They pulled apart. Jack sat back against his heels and Emma crossed her legs Indian-style and pretended to fiddle with a loose thread on her sleeve.

"Congratulations," she said quickly.

"Hey, you too."

"Did you see him?"

"Gabe?" Jack nodded and rested his elbows on his knees. "He's so _teeny_. I can't get over it. Like, I can't even wrap my mind around it; he's a little person." Emma was on mute mode and Jack laughed quietly, "Do I sound like a total sap?"

"No. You sound honest."

"Let me drive you back, okay?" Jack insisted. "Your dad called me a little while ago. Told me you need to get some sleep. _Also_ told me you would disagree and I might have to drag you out, kicking and screaming," he grinned. "But you look really sleepy, so maybe it won't be as difficult as he chalked it up to be."

Emma barely fought him. Jack took the keys from Izzy's minivan and they left the hospital, walking towards the parking lot in complete silence. She snuck a sideways glance at him. Jack wore jeans and a hoodie, dark hair ruffled from running his fingers through it excessively. His chin was lightly covered in stubble from missing a morning shave, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes. It had been a seven hour flight, and hectic traffic to follow. Feeling very awkward (and well aware of it), Emma offered to drive instead.

"Don't worry about that," Jack said easily.

Emma hesitated and opened the passenger door, sliding in. The seatbelt clicked and she watched quietly as he turned the ignition. "Did you, um…did you have any trouble leaving London?" she hugged her arms to her chest.

Jack shrugged. "I explained the situation to my supervisor a couple of weeks back, so they were pretty lenient about it. Granted, I'm going to be back there in _three days_. But still, I had to come back to the states to meet Gabe." The engine started and Jack put the drive in reverse. "Not going to lie, I'm a little bummed out that Izzy and Jonathan ignored my input on the baby name spectrum of things."

Emma couldn't help but smile. "You honestly expected them to name their son Dudley?"

"Dudley Ebenezer_ Mundungus_."

"Jack."

"It was just a suggestion."

She chuckled and rested her head on the windowpane. The streets were dark and empty, and the lamp posts looked eerie in the post-rain fog. Jack yawned beside her. Emma closed her eyes and dozed off, waking up only once when they had stopped for gas. Then once more in the Sheraton parking lot. Emma collected her duffel bags from the trunk, slinging her messenger bag across her shoulder to her hip. Jack locked the car and tossed her the keys.

"Are you staying here?" Emma asked.

"I don't know," Jack shrugged. "On one hand, there's a pull-out in their living room. But then I would have to go back to the hospital to get the house key. Or just sleep at the hospital, but I would _really_ enjoy a bed. Plus, all my luggage is already with me here."

"Stay with us. I mean, Dad booked two rooms." Emma hesitated. She wondered if she had made eye contact with him _at all _in the last couple of hours. Definitely not normal best friend behavior. So she forced herself to look up and smiled breezily. "Tell you what. We will wake up early, make a Manhattan Bagel run and have breakfast with Izzy and Jonathan in the morning. Guilt-free _and_ you spend time with both parties."

"I like it," Jack agreed. He grinned.

* * *

Emma Woodhouse had never felt so uncomfortable in a hotel room in her entire life.

Including that one botched trip to Disney World in the summer of 1998 when she got the stomach flu and accidentally puked into Izzy's _Minnie Mouse_ fanny pack. No, this had to go beyond physical ailment. This was just plain _emotional_ torture brought on by excessive awkwardness.

As Jack washed up in the bathroom, Emma changed swiftly into shorts, a tee and a zip-up because she suddenly felt too self-conscious in her pajamas. Then she put her hair down. Then she put her hair _up_. Then she scoffed and passed a hand over her eyes and reminisced about a time when she hadn't given a damn about Jack Knightley's opinion on her appearance. She sighed and squared her shoulders. _What has my life become?_

The bathroom door unlocked and Jack yawned loudly and threw his bag across the room onto the coffee table in a botched three-pointer shot. It hit the edge and toppled on the floor. He shrugged. "Can't win them all."

Emma was searching through her purse when Jack took a pillow from the bed and a blanket from the linen closet. He spread both out on the floor, by the foot of the mattress. "Just don't step on me on the way to the bathroom," Jack requested politely.

"Hey," Emma rubbed the back of her neck. "Don't do that, you've had a really long day. It's a queen sized, sleep on the other side of the bed."

"Oh." A beat. "Do you care?"

"No, it's fine," she said nonchalantly.

"'Kay."

Emma settled in under the covers and turned on her side, flicking off her bedside lamp. Jack sat on the mattress and plugged in his cell phone to charge. After a couple of minutes of scrolling through messages, she heard him lie back on the mattress. "Shit," he said quietly. "I'm too lazy to turn off the hallway light."

She laughed.

"Can we just sleep with it on?"

_No, it's too bright!_ "Yeah—yeah, sure."

There was disbelief in his voice. "This from the girl who hit me with a picture frame on our freshman year camping trip because I left one of the lanterns on. You must be too tired to care, huh?"

"Yeah," Emma said quietly. She laughed a little and then stopped.

She wanted to scream.

God, why hadn't she suggested that Jack just room with Tom? She couldn't handle _this_. Not anymore, any way. She didn't know how to act in front of Jack anymore, it was like learning a process backwards.

Not that he would ever know this. Not that he was _supposed_ to know this. Emma hugged her pillow and sighed.

Jack sighed too, got up and flicked the switch in the hall. "Goodnight," he said after awhile.

"Goodnight."

She heard his Blackberry vibrate. Jack exhaled evenly and turned to his side to unplug it and text back. Emma bit her lip. After she was sure that he was settled back into bed, she asked tentatively, "Was that Heather?"

A pause, then: "Heather?"

"Yeah. She probably wants to know if you arrived safely, right?"

"Um," Jack hesitated. "I guess…But no, that wasn't her."

"Oh."

He was quiet for a couple of minutes. "Hey, Emma?"

"Yeah?"

"I know this is probably the last thing you want to talk about," Jack said slowly. "But I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry." Emma sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. Light flooded the room and Jack squinted and raised his hands up against his face. "_Jesus_."

"What do you mean?" she asked breathlessly.

"I uh, well I'm not sure if you know about this," Jack sat up against the headboard and rubbed his eyes groggily. "But Taylor called me before my flight back home. She's been keeping this news from you for a few days now, I think she's just too afraid to break it to you. And don't think this is about me, because I've got _nothing_ to do with it, but she just wanted me to tell you—"

"—that Luke is seeing Jane?"

Jack snapped his mouth shut and turned to look at her. "_What? _You know?"

"Don't worry," Emma laughed softly. "I practically walked in on them when I was housesitting the Weston's apartment."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

She shrugged and pulled at the end of her braid. "That's okay. I wasn't hurt. Maybe a little, but only for being lied to." Emma paused and laughed, "To be honest, I should have read the signs. They were pretty obvious."

"Maybe in hindsight," Jack agreed. "But Emma, Churchill is an asshole for doing that to you. No exceptions."

"Yeah, you've got a point there," Emma grinned.

"But I had my suspicions, too."

"I know you did. I just didn't listen. As per usual."

"Well, you're good at that," he smiled.

Emma rubbed her arm and smiled back. "Yeah, I think I've learned by now that I'm not as perceptive as I thought. I'm kind of blinded by what I _want_ to happen half the time, you know?" she said. "But I'm happy Luke told Taylor and Oliver about it. It was lying to the Westons that I couldn't stand. As for me, things had long been over between Luke and I when I found out. We were never serious, it was just spur-of-the-moment. And looking back, I don't think I was even all that emotionally attached to Luke. Nothing like _love_, anyway."

Jack didn't say anything. He was staring at the screen of his phone. Emma worried that she had said too much. She cleared her throat and apologized for turning on the lamp, then moved to switch it off.

"Wait, Emma?" Jack said quickly. He looked troubled. "Not just yet. I have to talk to you about something."

"Oh."

"And I'm not sure how you're going to _react_, to be honest."

"Oh," Emma said again. She shut her eyes. _Fuck_.

Jack had moved closer to her now. He took her hand and she glanced up at him with wide gray eyes. "Emma, I'm going to sound like the most incoherent douchebag right now, but I _have_ to say this."

Emma hesitated.

"Look, I—"

"Please don't!" Emma suddenly blurted. She slowly pulled her hand away and back into her lap.

Jack's mouth opened, his green eyes questioning her. He pulled back. "What?" he asked softly.

Emma wanted to cringe. "I'm not going to lie to you, Jack. I was afraid of this."

"You were." Jack's voice was low and disappointed. Obviously, she had hurt him. After all, he had only wanted his best friend to be happy for him. But Emma was only _human_ after all. She turned to face him more fully.

"Jack, listen to me. You have to understand," Emma pleaded. "Just don't say it. Even if it _is_ true. I don't want to hear it. It's going to ruin everything." She took in a deep breath and let it out. "I _should_ be happy, and I know that. But I'm not. I'm so sorry. It will ruin _everything_."

"Everything," Jack repeated back dully.

"Yes," Emma said quietly. "I have to be honest with you. I've always been honest with you."

"Right."

In one fluid movement, Jack had gotten off the bed. He paced for a few moments. "I'm sorry," he shook his head. "I'm just—I'm trying to not be a dick right now and say something inappropriate or hurtful or stupid. Or make myself look like an even _bigger_ dumbass."

"Jack, you're not an—!"

"It's okay, Emma, really. You've made yourself clear," he said quietly.

Emma thought she might actually cry. She sat on the edge of the mattress and looked up at him miserably. "Jack, please don't do this. You mean so much to me; I don't want to lose you as a friend."

Jack froze and turned around. He shook his head, chuckling. "And we're such great _friends_, aren't we?"

"Exactly!"

"We're really not, Emma."

"Oh." Her shoulders fell.

"You can't be all that surprised," Jack started pensively. "Haven't you known all this time why I don't like Luke Churchill?"

Her eyebrows shot up. She was a little thrown by the change in topic. "I guess…_no_. Not really."

"Seriously?"

"I mean, we all just figured you despised him for his girlish good looks."

Jack laughed, and it eased Emma up a little. But she could see that he was still upset. He spoke with a certain edge to his voice. "Well, _fine_. There's always that."

_There's also the fact that I suggested Luke go out with Heather_.

And suddenly Emma understood. "Oh shit. Well, I—"

"Emma, I can't be your best friend."

"_Dude!_" Emma found herself shouting before she could stop herself. She knew she was being hysterical and Jack was looking down at her with raised eyebrows, half amused and half puzzled. But she didn't care anymore. She got to her feet and pointed at his chest, "I _know_ I've been a shitty but you can't just _end_ things like this!"

"What? I—"

"No, you know what? I refuse! If you walk out of my life because of this disagreement, I am _tracking_ you down."

"Emma," Jack started to laugh.

"With bloodhounds. _With_ bloodhounds! …Why are you laughing at me?"

Jack closed the distance between them and kissed Emma. And because she was _that_ neurotic, for a split second she actually suspected Jack Knightley had gone for _new_ tactics to shut her up. But then his hand cradled her cheek and his mouth brushed against hers. Emma staggered back in disbelief.

"I—but—_me_," she said in a small voice. "You meant…me?"

"Yes," Jack said very quietly, mussing her curls a little. "When has it _not_ been you?" Emma started to say something. Then she stopped. Then she started again. "Emma, come on, you have to give me _something_ here. I'm hanging out on a limb," Jack said quietly. Vulnerably.

So, she did. Grinning, Emma took a fistful of his collar and pulled him in for a second kiss. But this time it was thorough. She felt Jack smile against her mouth and her stomach did an interesting half-twist-uppity-_flip_ thing. Somehow, they were up against the cabinets. Her hands found themselves reaching up to run through his hair, settling at the nape of his neck as he kissed her. Jack leaned into Emma slowly, a knee between her legs, a hand against her hip. She suddenly felt a rush of warmth and happiness. Maybe this was how you were _supposed_ to feel.

When it was right, anyway.

"It's a _little_ weird," Jack pulled away for a second.

Emma's mouth opened. "What, seriously?" she said, breathless.

"A _good_ weird," Jack said quickly, not meaning to offend. "Like, a _repressed_ weird."

Emma laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his shoulder. Jack moved his lips against her hair and hugged her tightly.


	23. Baby, It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:** It's the _final countdown_. Not really. Epilogue next! I hope you enjoy this one, I had fun writing it. At lightning speed. (But secretly over two weeks). Now back to watching World Cup 2010 and rooting for España and Puyol and his glorious hair, _ay ay ay_! :) Come on, mis muchachos.

* * *

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter 23: _Baby, It's Cold Outside_

Jack woke up before Emma did that Tuesday morning. To his immeasurable happiness, they were sharing a bed without any forced awkwardness. And they were _decent_—because he was, above all else, a good man.

Emma's head was against his chest, an arm wrapped snugly around his waist. Jack hummed a little under his breath, and she turned her face up to his and smiled sleepily. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Thanks for not taking advantage of me in this vulnerable state," she said matter-of-factly. It didn't reach its desired effect, since she was too groggy and her eyes were closed and her red hair was a riot of messy curls.

He snorted softly. "I'm a _gentleman_, Emma. We're a dying breed. Look us up."

"You're also a pretty good pillow," she murmured.

"Thanks. Gustav thought so, too."

Emma smiled. "Mm, I see what happened in London. A little guy-on-guy action going on there?"

"It's a _bromance_," Jack emphasized, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "He makes me breakfast occasionally, we share a couple of beers after work, and then we watch old episodes of _I Dream of Jeannie_. It's a process."

"Oh, I see. Any candlelit dinners involved?"

"Gus hasn't offered yet," Jack tutted sadly.

Emma decided that she liked his voice very much in the morning. It was thick with sleep, low and deep and with warmth. Jack put his arms around her and hummed again. She recognized the first notes of "More Than Words" and smiled, more content than she had been in a long time. It nearly felt wrong—and yet so inexplicably _right_ at the exact same time.

"I don't want to get up," Emma admitted softly.

"Then don't."

Jack had a way of making everything so blissfully simple and uncomplicated.

Emma propped herself up on her elbows and looked at him seriously. "Jack," she murmured, "this is a problem."

Jack sat up. "What? Sitting?"

"No," she laughed softly, staring down at her hands in her lap. "Jack, this, _us_. It's a problem."

"I think it's the _opposite_ of a problem," Jack said. He was smiling, and it was so genuine and boyish and heartwarming that she forgot what she was going to say and decided right then that she loved him and would need to tell him, and _soon_. But logic sputtered onward, convenient and distracting all at once.

Emma cleared her throat, tucked an auburn strand of her behind her ear, and raised her index finger deliberately. "One, I'm not sure how Izzy and Jonathan will react. Or my father. Or Taylor!" Emma gasped. "Oh, Taylor might _hate_ us for boxing her out."

"She boxed us out first—she got _married_," Jack replied easily.

"But what about the others?" Emma drew her knees up to her chest, mortified. "I don't know _how_ to tell Heather. Jack, you have to know about Heather. I've been so stupid about this all. But she is going to _murder_ me—"

"_Shhh_," Jack said softly. "Emma, please. Stop caring about how everybody else is going to react. For once, answer me this. Are _you_ happy?"

"Of course," Emma blurted. "I'm just—I—" she said softly. A blush crept up on her cheeks, and Jack couldn't help but think of how young she looked, with rosy cheeks and that constellation of freckles peppering the bridge of her nose. She suddenly laughed, bright and enthusiastic. "_Yes_."

Jack grinned and took her hands in his. "Then _done_. That's it. Bottom line. Case closed."

"But how will—"

"No."

"And—"

"Nein."

"_Jack_—"

"Hey," Jack said blithely. "Everything is going to be okay."

"But—"

"Emma, I swear to God, I'm not above telling you to shut up if I have to. True, there's been a third act twist here, and you've learned a lot, and you fell asleep in my arms, but I've still got it in me to scold you once in a while."

Emma pursed her lips.

"And you've still got it in you to beat me up," he said slowly with dawning comprehension.

"Yes."

Jack laughed and shook his head. "You're cute."

* * *

Jonathan, as expected, had been the first to sniff out the trail with Scooby like prowess. Once the post-baby glow of the new parenthood softened a bit (it surprisingly gave way after only 3 days), he was able to leave one very sly message on his little brother's voicemail:

"_Hey Jacko. Word has it that you disappeared with Emma last night. Now, I don't know if you made a move or not, because you're a little bit of a pussy, but I saw that girl this morning before she left for the train and her face was pinker than fresh watermelon on a summer's day. Yeah, that's right. I'm going with food analogies now. I haven't had lunch and Izzy wants a sandwich from the bistro—_"

_Beep_. End of Message.

"_—so, in hindsight, I hope I helped with the brotherly advice phone calls in London. Because when you love somebody, you have to let them know before the burden of that knowledge breaks your heart in and of itself. And judging by preexisting conditions, I think it's safe to say that you have snagged yourself one very cute redhead (but not her smokin' hot sister). Also, I demand Ginger Babies. In fact, I want it in writing. To God: __Gingers__. Anything else is unacceptable. Thanks. Bye_."

_Beep_. End of Message #2.

"_Oh hey, me again. It turns out that Emma told Izzy the whole thing and it took _me_ like what, five additional hours to find out by myself? What the hell, man? Why didn't you tell me? We're supposed to be tight. The fuck is this. Have fun in London, asshole_."

End of Message #3.

"_You're not an asshole, I'm sorry. That was pretty shitty of me. We're cool. We're cool, right? I'm sure we are. Yeah. But you should probably know that you're not getting a Christmas card this year. Because not telling me was a dick move. Not that you're a dick, you just _acted_ like a bit of a dick. But trust me, it's better than being an asshole. Like, if I had the choice, I'd rather be a dick than an asshole. Not anatomically, just…okay, have a safe flight, love you, bye._"

* * *

December in New York City could either be enchanting or utterly soul-crippling. A person could see whatever they wanted to see. A bevy of holiday shopping and several industrial strength bottles of aspirin. The lovely, adorned Christmas tree towering over Rockefeller Center and its famous ice skating rink on 5th Avenue and the bustle of grinning, merry families. Blistering cold winds and threadbare coats. Reunions between old friends who had been tossed apart by time, distance and inconvenience.

It was this last factor that left Emma antsy. She was at Starbucks, in a corner booth, with her fingers drumming nervously on the lid of her pumpkin spice latte. A stack of books and her laptop sat in a neat stack by the edge of the table, highlighters and pens sticking out their spiral bindings. It seemed that these days, Emma was going out of her way to sneak studying into the daily humdrum of life. At breakfast, under bedsheets with a penlight, in the ladies room, on the F train, in the checkout line at Whole Foods, even once at a downtown yoga class (where she was promptly yelled at). Exams loomed ahead for the week of the 17th. Many students hung to that one, gloomy note of commiseration before the Winter Recess began in all its jovial holiday bliss.

But Emma was having difficulty concentrating on academics at the moment.

And it was because of the single person who could walk through the doors at any moment, sink into the opposite seat, and say something either completely devastating or hopefully fulfilling.

Robbie Martin beamed at her from the window, the collar of his coat raised up against the cold. Emma grinned and waved back, watching as he let himself in. He shrugged out of his coat, neatly hiked up the sleeves of his sweater, and laughingly said, "Isn't this a surprise!"

"Merry Christmas to you, too," Emma smiled genuinely.

"A little too early for that, don't you think?" prompted Robbie with a grin.

"I'll take your jacket," she offered, turning to hang it up beside hers on the rack perched on the wall. When Emma sat back down, Robbie was running a hand through his hair. "Hey, nice haircut. Very _you_."

"You think? Thank you. I was sick of the shagginess," he admitted. "I cleaned up a little."

"Rob, you look good. You clean up very nicely."

"Emma, I'm flattered," he said, stony-faced. "Seriously, it's a tremendous compliment. But word on the street is that you're finally in a relationship with my roommate, and I can't have you breaking his heart. Or at least not so early into the relationship, a little discretion would be appreciated here."

Her face had already turned bright scarlet, but Emma was accustomed to embarrassment by now. _Especially_ at Jack's expense. "Oh, hardy har, _everybody_ knows about Jack now, don't they?"

"Everybody and their mother, yeah. Apparently you have your friend Taylor to thank. She's very enthusiastic. I remember Facebook notifications. She's a social networking fiend."

"Oh Jesus," Emma moaned. She remembered the cell phone conversation with Taylor and Oliver Weston all too vividly. Whooping was involved, and smugness. Oh, _loads_ of smugness. Taylor, lodged firmly on her high horse and determined _not_ to get down, had insisted that she had seen it all coming from miles away.

"It was cute," Robbie shrugged, smiling simply. He ordered a cappuccino and sat back, relaxed.

As coffee was sipped, conversations ran easily. To Emma's surprise, Robbie shared that he had landed a job as a sous-chef first at Isaac's and then at Le Bernardin, one of the most exclusive and upscale French restaurants in midtown Manhattan. His sister Jenny was back in their mother's custody in a new, freshly furnished townhouse in Colorado that he had just visited two weeks before, and she had finished her second term of the 4th grade with straight A's—Robbie's pride and joy. He was also taking class part-time to get his degree, _and_ keeping up with a second job at Urban to make rent.

"Of course," said Robbie, "Jack is very lenient about that sort of thing. But I'm an honest guy, I can't have him covering my ass. He insists, though, because he's too goodhearted for his own damn good."

"He is."

"You must miss him."

"I do," Emma said quietly, half-smiling. She missed him so much. It actually _ached_, dull and heavy. "But," Emma continued optimistically, "if negotiations work out, he should be back by the 22nd. For good. I'm sick of sharing Jack with London."

"You and me both," Robbie laughed.

Emma grinned. She sat back and tilted her head, mulling over her next words. "Robbie, can I be frank with you?"

"Please," he insisted.

"It's been months, so bear with me. I have to be honest when I say that this has played a little—okay, maybe not so little—part in meeting you like this today. But I just wanted to know if you still talk to Heather Smith. She's been studying at Rutgers."

Robbie's mouth opened, confused. "Heather? Not really. Why?"

Emma leaned forward and bit her lip. "This past summer, I made the colossal mistake of misjudging you and ignoring what a great guy you are," she hesitated, embarrassed, "which I can see _now_. Trust me, I've had my head stuck up my ass for months. I'm trying to be a big girl and own up to it because apparently, that's the _right thing to do_. But Heather in part made the colossal mistake in trusting _my_ judgment. I pushed you apart, and I'm _so_ sorry."

Robbie was looking down into his cup pensively. He rubbed his chin in thought. "Wow."

"Yeah."

"That was some brutal honesty with my morning coffee."

"I'm sorry," Emma repeated sincerely.

"Hey, I'm glad you told me." Robbie paused and looked up. "And look, I appreciate honesty. It takes some _cojones._ So, I can't lie to you, Emma. There have been some other girls since summer passed."

"Of course," Emma nodded, in full understanding. In a way, she had even anticipated it. "And forgive me for meddling, I'm _really_ trying to be done with that, but were they serious?"

Robbie made a face. "Yes and no."

"OK," she nodded again. Robbie looked uncomfortable and rubbed the back of his neck, which prompted Emma to raise her hands and say, "Look, I just wanted to know if it was too late. That's all. I haven't even talked to Heather yet," she mumbled self-consciously. "We've been uh, kind of distant."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he murmured, and she could tell that he meant it. "Heather's a great girl. There was a time when I was interested. But she's not in the city anymore, and I almost feel like we've passed by each other. Do you understand what I mean?" Robbie's brown eyes flickered up and met hers across the table. "It's just the way life works sometimes."

"Yeah, I understand."

She did, and she didn't. Emma suddenly had the impression of feeling very small. Inexperience, she supposed, was the culprit.

Robbie smiled, a polite but slightly strained smile, and finished his coffee. "It was great to see you, Emma. I have a feeling that once Jack gets back from London, I'll be seeing you at the apartment a little more frequently. Maybe you can even let me cook for you guys."

"I'd love that," she smiled.

"You just have to watch out for Sasha, he crashes dinner all the time."

"Oh God, I forgot about Sasha," Emma laughed. "Talk about smug. I feel like he knew about us before _we_ did."

"Kids are intuitive that way."

"Not Sasha, he's just good at being a pain in the ass."

Robbie shrugged into and zipped up his coat. "Well yeah, you're probably right," he grinned.

There was a lag in conversation and Robbie eventually asked for his coat, which Emma handed back to him. She watched him pull a beanie out of one of the pockets, tugging it over his ears. December was bitterly cold, and he looked silly in his cap; almost like a little boy. _A boy-man_, she thought with a start. But Robbie Martin was a sweetheart, and Emma was happy to have lifted the veil of stupidity long enough to realize this.

Neck craned, she watched as Robbie left the coffee shop and continued down the street. Once Emma was sure he was out of sight, she checked her watch anxiously, shoulders rounding in relief and expectation. It was 12PM, noon on the dot. It had all been choreographed to _perfection_, as if their conversation were a screenplay itself. She anticipated a thirty second wait. But then reconsidered it, because ten minutes was a little more accurate.

Beneath her delicately folded hands rested Robbie Martin's battered old leather wallet.

_I feel like Oliver Twist_, Emma thought with a thrill.

Her cell phone vibrated and Emma shot it a scathing glance, as if looks could silence it automatically. It was a text from Jack. She wondered how it was that he seemed to scent out her mischief, even across the Atlantic. Unable to resist, she opened her phone:

_From: Jack_  
_Haven't heard from you today. Might have to turn to Gustav for romantic consolations. He's pretty dreamy. Are we on our best behavior, darling?_

Emma grinned.

Distracted, she hadn't heard the clang of the bells at the entrance door. She was genuinely astonished when Heather slid into the booth across from her, her bright blue eyes narrowed in scrutiny. Her keys slammed on the table and she said, "Okay, what's all this about?" and Emma actually had to suppress a yelp. She snapped her cell phone shut.

"_Hi_," Emma gushed brightly.

Heather's lips twitched; Emma could tell she was making a conscious effort not to like her. "You are _so_ lucky that I'm in the city this week. I got your voicemail and I was _about_ to delete it, but you said it was a matter of life and _death_, so I—"

"It is," Emma interrupted smoothly, her voice grave.

"What's wrong?" Heather inched forward. "Who's dying?"

"Not so much a _who_ as it is an _it_: our friendship, girl."

Heather's eyes widened. First shock, then disbelief, then pure, unbridled anger. "You can't be serious. And here I was thinking of your _father_—"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Papa's going to outlive us all, heaven knows he's got the medicine cabinet stocked for the task."

"…You are manipulative beyond words."

"I know."

"I can't _believe_ this," Heather exploded.

"I know, I'm sorry," said Emma calmly.

"You _tricked_ me!"

"I wanted to talk to you face-to-face about Jack," Emma explained truthfully.

But Heather had already gotten to her feet. Her shoulders slumped, dejected, and she brushed a hand under her nose. She was starting to sniffle, which Emma could have attributed to the cold, had she not known better. "I've already _heard_ about you and Jack. You can thank Dara, who heard it from the Westons."

_Damn you, Taylor!_ Emma thought bitterly.

"Heather—"

"I shouldn't be so surprised," said Heather glumly. "In fact, I wasn't. I don't think you've ever seen the way Jack looked at you." Her voice had grown soft, and Emma suddenly felt her heart sink. "It's just—_yes_, he could scold you but…he always looked at you with this _adoration_. What I wouldn't give to have a man look at me like that! I cried when I found out. And I hated you for a couple of days. I ignored your e-mails. All 37."

"38," Emma corrected automatically.

"Whatever."

"I'm sorry," she said helplessly, staring at her hands. Her throat had grown tight. Beneath Emma's fingers, Robbie's wallet lay, forgotten.

"I _missed_ you," Heather admitted with a sigh. Her blue eyes shone upwards, glassy and wide. "I really did. I'm finding it so hard to be mad at you, Emma! In fact, I kind of hate you for it! You're infuriating and _likeable_ at the same time. Who _does_ that?"

"Oh, Heather!"

And with that, the redhead leapt across the table and embraced the other girl. Heather let out a giggle despite herself and hugged Emma back, both sniffling back tears and drawing a small audience from the suits and students sipping non-foam drip espressos.

"I'm _so_ sorry," Emma said feelingly. "I hope that I never insinuated that you weren't good enough for Jack, Heather, you're _such_ a great girl! You abso_lutely_ deserve to be happy! It just made me crazy with jealousy, and I had to face the truth about how I felt about Jack; even if he was my best friend. In fact, I swore to myself that I would keep him off-limits, but I was _dying_, and then he told me—"

"I know," Heather sniffled. "I know. I know."

"You have to forgive me, I know I screwed up so badly!" Emma pleaded. "First with Ethan, then Lucas, and _Jack_. It's been a mess and I've stuck you right in the middle of it. What kind of a friend have I been?"

"You should forgive _me_," Heather asked in return. Emma looked shocked, and Heather explained: "I said unspeakable things to you that night we fought. You had just treated me to dinner and I pulled a Brutus on you!"

"Reading Shakespeare for Lit?" Emma arched an eyebrow.

"Yeah,_ Julius Caesar_, why?"

"Wild guess."

Heather giggled and pulled back, brushing tears out of her eyes. She slumped wearily in her seat and said simply, "Mazel Tov."

"Thank you."

Both girls hesitated, and then let out peals of laughter.

"We're so _stupid_," Emma said miserably. "Oh shit, I dropped my books."

"Leave them."

"Yeah, seriously. But they're _way_ too expensive." Emma stacked her notebooks and texts back into their neat, overpriced page metropolis and sat back with a sigh. "Oh, Heather. I'm—"

"Stop apologizing, you're giving me a headache," Heather said moodily. She held her head in her hands and snapped up with some ingenious idea, blue eyes sparkling. "I want a scone."

"Get it," Emma said with a laugh. Heather smiled.

And through cunning, scones, text messages, snotty tears, awkward confessions and stollen wallets, the stars suddenly aligned long enough to untangle the knots of this entire ordeal. Because at the precise moment that Heather had dragged herself into the line behind the register, Robbie Martin burst through the doors and found Emma's booth. She jumped, startled.

"Have you seen my wallet?" he asked, breathless. Robbie's beanie had been pulled off and his dark blond hair was messy and tousled; Emma was reminded of Harry Potter and she bit back a laugh.

"I, um—that's odd, let me check!"

Emma made a great show of looking beneath the table for it, when it was simply resting next to her bookbag on the seat of the booth. She suddenly plucked it out and handed it to him. "Ah, here it is!" Nervously, she glanced over his shoulder, where Heather was already rounding back to their table, the scone halfway in her mouth. _Oh honey, please chew first_.

Robbie, perplexed, shoved the wallet into his front jean pocket. "That's what I get for putting it in my _coat_ for once. It must have fallen out. I got so worried. Would you believe I left it in a cab once?"

Emma pursed her lips._ You are so adorably stupid_. "I did that with my best clutch three weeks ago. _Mortifying_."

"Yeah, better here than on the street. I'm so glad I found it."

"Me too."

"_Robbie?_"

And this was how Robbie turned on the soles of his shoes and found himself face-to-face with the blue eyed girl who had been the topic of conversation not fifteen minutes prior. There was a _lot_ of blushing. So much so that Emma felt calmly at home with her own newly found habit of turning crimson. And Robbie, confident and suddenly successful Robbie, was reduced to a shy schoolboy so quickly that Emma noted with smug satisfaction that he had _not_ really been over Heather Smith to begin with. Multiple summertime flings be damned.

Half an hour later, Emma walked out into the cold, tucking her green scarf into the zipper of her leather jacket. She turned on her heels and saw Robbie and Heather behind in the booth, laughing and catching up over lemon cakes and (two more) scones and coffee. Both were grinning. And she couldn't help but smile with them, hoping for the best.

On the metro later that afternoon, she finally brought herself to text Jack again: _Cotton Candykins, I have never behaved better. Also, you can't make me jealous of Gustav. But nice try._

_

* * *

_

Five weeks passed, sluggish and heartbreaking, but it was all worth it for that moment in the airport when she spotted Jack, whirling around in the terminal searching for familiar faces. Grinning, Emma ran up behind him and covered his eyes with her hands. "Guess who?" she said, voice low and husky.

"Emma, you sound like you have emphysema."

She hit his arm and Jack grinned. They hugged tightly.

"Daddy's waiting outside in the cab. I don't know, he's still skeeved out by seeing the two of us together. Not that I can _blame_ him, it's a little bit of a shock to the system after twenty years of platonic friendship."

"Yeah, now he's going to be all suspicious of Biffle Friday," Jack said mournfully.

"_Mm_," Emma said with sympathy. "Hey, I haven't told him that we made out indecently in a hotel room in DC."

"Yeah, best keep that to yourself."

Out beyond the terminals of JFK, Tom Woodhouse began helping Jack load his luggage into the back of the taxi. He hurled the trunk shut and straightened, extending his hand towards his once-favorite Knightley brother. "Jack," said Tom stiffly.

"Tom!" beamed Jack brightly. They shook hands.

"Oh, how _awkward_!" Emma took the liberty to say, horrified. "Seriously, Pop? How much has changed, we've been _over_ this!"

"Yeah," he said quietly, defeated. "Time. Just give me time. That's what Taylor suggested."

"Okay, you need to stop Facebook messaging my friends."

"I liked her profile picture," blurted Tom in defense. "I'm going to go and put the luggage cart back."

"Thank you, Tom," said Jack sincerely.

Emma and Jack watched as Tom Woodhouse disappeared briefly inside. She sighed heavily and finished the rest of her coffee cup, dunking it inside the nearest trashcan. For once, she actually got it in and whooped. Jack laughed, "You're such a child."

"I know," she said sadly.

Jack smiled. He brushed her bangs out of her eyes and leaned in and kissed her, slowly and carefully. When he pulled away, he said, rather mood-crushingly, "You taste like coffee."

"Sorry."

"That's okay."

"I love you."

He paused, eyebrows raised.

"Shit," Emma started, "Um. Well, yeah. Fuck it. I do."

Jack was nodding slowly, and it was almost infuriating her. She folded her arms over her chest. "That's okay, you don't have to make your own swooning romantic declarations. Leave a girl hanging, feeling like an idiot. I mean, I've been there before."

"Em, what can I say?" Jack shrugged.

"What can you say?" Emma echoed, wide eyed. "What can you _say_?"

She took the liberty of throwing her hands up in the air.

"You are such a terrible actress," deadpanned Jack. She decided that she hated his dimples. Melodramatically and right on cue, Emma flung open the taxi door and was about to slide in when Jack laughed, warm and carefree, and put his hands on her shoulders. "Emma, here's the thing," he said carefully, his green eyes serious. "If I loved you any less, I might be able to talk about it more. But I'm not really capable of waxing poetic or rambling out long speeches. Because I've only ever given you the truth, in its simplest form." He reconsidered this with a grin, "Okay, maybe not its _simplest_ form."

Emma opened her mouth, temporarily speechless. Even the cab driver, who had whirled around to lecture on the time, had paused to listen carefully. At the sidewalk, Tom was walking back to them with a Starbucks bag. _How_ and _when_, she didn't even have the strength to ask.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" asked Jack, amused.

Emma hesitated, opened her mouth and closed it. She smiled and shook her head weakly and he laughed, cupping her face with his hands.

"That's a first!" Jack grinned.


	24. Epilogue

**Red Light, Green Light**  
Chapter 24: _Epilogue_

They broke up three weeks later.

It was the result of fighting over the tab at dinner. Emma was under the impression that it was her turn to foot the bill, but Jack had insisted that he had to feel a _little_ bit like a boyfriend and take care of it himself. Then Emma removed the proverbial can of worms from her purse, pried it open and unleashed _all_ of her views on feminism in modern society as Jack buried his head in his hands miserably and asked the waiter for another bread roll.

"—what, and I suppose next you want me to stay at home and make you briscuit in a cute little blue apron while you put on your fedora and rake in all the _money_?"

Jack had balked, "I don't even _like_ briscuit!"

The issue was resolved a full two days later, but only because Jonathan had put it upon himself to be the mediator. "_Think of the future children,"_ he demanded of his brother over the phone, "_the future, fiery-haired children, Jack!_"

"What is it with you and gingers?"

"_Yeah, I don't know, it's getting weird_."

Regardless, the summer that followed Emma's first year at NYU and Jack's London internship was one of absolute bliss. They took it upon themselves to go on his very first road trip. Izzy, Oliver and even Dara contributed little starred stickers on a giant, crumpled map of the United States that designated their favorite landmarks and must-see locations. Taylor supplied mix CDs loaded with John Cougar Mellencamp. Mr. Woodhouse slipped an emergency first-aid kit into the glove compartment of the rented pick-up truck. Just because he could.

They would never bother to tell their friends and family that they hadn't driven much further than Maryland. The truth was that there had been too much laughter, too much stargazing, and too much affection to give any excess thought to national landmarks. Too many makeshift dinners on the hood of the pick-up, too many nights that Emma fell asleep with her head in Jack's lap, too many reused outfits of t-shirts and jean shorts, too many questionable hygienic practices, too many rest stops, too many barefoot excursions, too much blushing, too much kissing. Among other things.

Emma spent the rest of her summer in DC with Izzy, Jon and her little nephew. She even took a couple of weeks off to visit Anne in Chicago, where several nights were spent at the free concerts in Millennium Park. It was there that she finally met the elusive Fred Wentworth, who was all clean cut tight-lipped gentleman until you got one (or three) beers in him.

Anne was tiny compared to Fred, but they were inseparable and cute beyond words. Emma had taken up photography that summer and an entire page of her album had been devoted to her new friends, so natural and loving in each other's company even though they had been separated for months.

It was one rainy Saturday morning, six years later, that Emma rediscovered her photo album from the summer of 2009.

Her auburn hair was piled up in a messy damp bun from her shower, and she was dressed down in a tank top and sweatpants, padding around her dark room barefoot as Moxie sat and watched her from the door. Emma whistled at her and smiled, and accidentally knocked down a film canister.

"_Shit_."

Moxie's ears perked up.

Ducking low to paw the canister out from under the counter, Emma spotted the rows of albums until a familiar green one caught her eye. She pulled it out.

Jack came home three hours later and found Emma on the living room sofa, the album open in her lap. Moxie slept quietly at her side with her head resting on her paws.

"What's this?" Jack smiled, looking at all the post-its sticking out from the folds of the album.

"Reminders," Emma grinned.

"Oh yeah?"

He plucked one off of a picture of Fred and Anne. Anne was mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in front of Fred Wentworth whose arms were linked loosely around her waist. The wind had whipped her short black pixie cut so that her bangs were in her eyes and Fred's smile was wide and boyish. The post-it on the corner of the page read: _Visit the Foster-Wentworths in Chicago soon_.

"Wasn't their wedding last year?"

"Two years ago."

"_Shit_."

Emma laughed and flipped through the album backwards. There was a photo of the two of them just outside of Delaware, during what Jack fondly referred to as "The Road Trip of Fail." Emma had borrowed her dad's old camera and taken a Polaroid of Jack driving, a moment where he had paused to grin at her. The post-it on its edge read: _Do this again sometime. This century_.

"Wow, this makes me feel old."

"Yeah, well, you look it."

Jack poked her side and Emma giggled and scooted over. She closed the binder and pushed it back onto the coffee table. After a while, she rested her head in Jack's lap. He looked down at her and smiled.

"You look tired," she said frankly.

"Isn't that just code for _You look like shit_?" Jack smirked.

"Never!" Emma laughed. "Nah, you rock the dark circles and scruff pretty well. People will just thing you're _edgy_. If I do it, people will think I'm strung out on crack."

"If _you_ do it, people will wonder why you have scruff in the first place."

"And I'll just say I wear the pants in this relationship and testosterone has just caught up with me."

"Oh, okay," Jack laughed. "Remind me why you're so weird?"

"I don't know," Emma sighed and closed her eyes. She smiled when she felt him play with her hair. "I had a really weird childhood friend. He warped me from the very beginning."

"That's typical," Jack chuckled, "blaming your childhood influences."

"Dad would agree with me."

"Your dad's too worried about Izzy's second pregnancy to bother."

"Ten bucks it's a girl."

"You're on," Jack laughed, shaking her hand. He didn't let her hand go, simply traced nonsense shapes onto her palm. Emma tilted her head up to look at him.

Jack was exhausted from work; he was a couple weeks away from wrapping up a big case at his firm. She had been there for him the entire time, highlighting dates on legal briefs, bringing him coffee, making him scrambled eggs at 2 o'clock in the morning.

"You don't have to do this," he had told her one night, his green eyes wide and apologetic.

Emma had smiled over a mug of tea. "But I want to. Let somebody else take care of you for a change."

Jack got up from the couch a couple of minutes later and Emma readjusted, bringing her knees up to her chest to curl up into a ball. He looked at her for a moment, then leaned down and kissed her. Then he knelt down on one knee.

Emma's heart sped up. She propped herself up on elbow and asked breathlessly, "What are you doing?"

Jack raised an eyebrow and Emma peered over the edge of the sofa, where he was scratching Moxie behind the ears. Something in her chest sank.

"You okay?" Jack laughed.

"Yeah, I just…I'm being silly."

"Nothing unusual there," he teased. Emma smiled weakly and plopped back down on the pillow. She felt Jack ruffle her hair a bit and disappear into the kitchen.

_Stop it_, she scolded herself.

Ten minutes later, she heard Jack call out, "You know today is Oliver's birthday dinner, right? We're meeting at 7PM."

Emma got up and sighed, "That's _tonight_?"

"Try not to sound too thrilled about it," Jack smirked, leaning back so that she could see him. He was making stif-fry vegetables for lunch, a recipe Emma had stolen from Robbie months ago.

"Yeah, yeah."

"That's not what you're wearing, right?"

Emma looked down and pulled down the hem of her tank top over her exposed abdomen. "No," she said defensively.

"Good," Jack laughed.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, you've just been a bit of a homebody lately. A _cute_ homebody," Jack said quickly, "but I guess this is the trade-off for a six year relationship with your best friend."

"Well hey, you're not exactly pulling a Clark Gable over there."

"That hurts."

"You asked for it," Emma crossed her arms over her chest.

"I'm just saying that I've forgotten what your hair looks like when you put it down," Jack pointed out, turning off the stove.

Emma narrowed her eyes. "Fine, then. I'll wear it down tonight."

"Okay."

"_Okay_."

"Do it."

"I'm doing it for _me_, though, not you," warned Emma. "Got that?"

"Yeah," Jack smirked, "I got it."

"_Good_," she said, turning on her heels.

"Crazy," he muttered.

"I heard that!"

That evening, they all met for Oliver Weston's 33rd birthday _bash_ (as Taylor gigglingly dubbed it) and crowded around a circular table, ordering drinks and extra orders of egg rolls.

Of course Luke Churchill had to be there—he was his godson, after all. Jane greeted Emma with a warm hug. To everybody's surprise, they had become friends over the last couple of years. There was the added mutual interest of photography, but also a certain level of maturity that had forced the two young women to shelf their old misunderstandings and start anew.

Emma remembered Jack's words in the cab all those years ago: "_If you gave her a chance, you two would probably end up being good friends_." She flashed him a smile across the table, which Jack misread as the "There's-something-on-your-face" smile and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I see you got Jack to shave," Taylor whispered in her ear.

Emma laughed, "You're so mean. I happen to like him with five o'clock shadow."

"Yeah. Only you. That's why you're _with_ him, sweetie."

Emma elbowed her and Taylor grinned. They talked about work for a little while. She was working as an Art Director at a top publishing firm in downtown Manhattan. Jack had called her "Maneater" when she first finished graduate studies and started internships a couple of years back. Emma was a very ambitious girl—which came as no surprise to everybody who truly knew her.

An hour later, the men had dispersed and Emma peeked outside to find Oliver bumming a smoke. "Come on, it's my birthday," he grinned at Emma. "Spare me from my wife."

"_Fine_," Emma smiled.

Luke smiled at her. After a couple of minutes, Oliver rubbed out the cigarette butt with the toe of his shoe and disappeared inside. Emma hugged the blazer Jack had lent her closer to her chest, peering out to the skyline.

"Nice night, huh?" Luke asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Mm-hmm. Is it getting this cold in Boston?"

"Colder."

"Damn," Emma said softly. "It's nice of you guys to come up all this way."

"It's a must. I love Oliver, he's practically my uncle," Luke justified. "Plus, Jane jumps at every opportunity to visit Dara. She's our next stop after tonight."

"Mm."

She felt Luke looking at her for a while. He was just about to say something else when his eyes darted away and towards the door, where Jack was.

"Em, there's a business card in the front pocket of that jacket. Can I have it?" he asked.

"Sure thing."

Emma looked up after pulling it out, and noticed the strained tension between Jack and Luke. The funny thing was that Jack was all quiet, intimidating smiles—Luke actually looked _nervous_.

"I uh, I'm going to go inside. Emma," he nodded quickly. "Jack."

"See you inside, Luke."

Jack held the door open and said coolly, "After you."

When Luke had left, Emma impatiently asked, "Do you have to do that to him every time we meet up? I feel sorry for the guy."

"_I _don't," Jack chuckled lowly. "I enjoy milking the fact that I scare him a little bit. He's probably wearing a cup, guarantee you."

Emma pursed her lips to stop from laughing. Jack never did get the hang of veiling how much he disliked Lucas Churchill. Three years ago, they had bumped into each other at a neighborhood Chickie's and Pete's. Luke was with the Westons for the weekend, visiting with Jane.

Now, the _report_ said that the scuffle had been about a spilled drink at the bar.

"Luke accidentally spilled beer on my shirt. It was just a misunderstanding," Jack had justified that evening as Emma pressed an icepack gingerly to his forehead. "_Ouch_. Ow."

"Sorry," Emma had said. "You're _sure_ that's what it was about?"

"_Yes_," Jack had unconvincingly looked away.

He never did tell her what the argument had been about. Then again, he didn't exactly have to. Emma knew.

"You guys are ridiculous," she scolded him laughingly now. "_Boy_-men."

Jack shrugged this off breezily. He looked down and bent low on one knee. Emma's breath caught. He looked up at her. "Shoelace."

"Oh," she looked away. "Yeah, you wouldn't want to trip."

"_Nope_," Jack grinned, popping the 'p' of the word.

_You're neurotic_, Emma told herself again.

The party ended around midnight, and Emma was all too eager to slip back into sleepy homebody routine. Moxie simply glanced at them in the doorway when they got home, her chocolate brown eyes heavy-lidded.

"Where's the _excitement_, girl?" Jack laughed. He unbuttoned his shirt and threw his blazer over the couch.

"She's not excited about you anymore," Emma explained with a sleepy yawn. She slipped out of her heels and tossed them by the door. "It's just what happens, Jack. We get very bored with you very quickly."

"_We_?"

"Females, in general."

"Oh, right," Jack smirked. "I'm going to ignore that and make us tea. Interested?"

"Very," Emma yawned. She curled up on the couch, still in her black dress. The TV was turned on to a muted_ Law and Order _episode, and Moxie jumped up on the sofa to warm up Emma's bare feet.

There was a loud clatter of dishes in the kitchen, and Jack shouted, "I'm okay! Nothing is broken."

"_Nothing_ meaning arms or dishes?" she called back.

A careful pause. "Both!"

Emma smirked, leaning over and rubbed a smudge off of the antique coffee table. Jack's apartment had taken on a distinctly professional interior decorating touch since she had moved in three and a half years ago. Everything was more colorful and cozy. Issues of _The New York Times _no longer served as makeshift shelves.

"See, these are called _fresh flowers_," Emma remembered enunciating, one week into living at Jack's for the first time. She was arranging pink and violet tulips on that very same coffee table. "They go in a _vase_, which goes on a _table_."

Jack, tight-lipped, had raised his green eyes to hers hopelessly. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, "I hate you so much."

"You _love_ me."

"I'm going to repeat that to myself for the next hour and a half," he had said sourly, walking back into the bedroom. "Because I may forget!"

Emma stared at the coffee table now and rubbed her eyes sleepily. When she opened them, Jack was standing in front of her.

His dark hair was a little messy and his dress shirt was a little wrinkled and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. But Emma wouldn't really have him any other way. Jack was somehow always handsome to her. She smiled and hugged her knees to her chest, cocking her head to one side.

"I'm putting these here," Jack warned, placing two mugs on the coffee table. "Don't yell at me, I can't find coasters."

"I don't care," Emma said.

"Wow, somebody must be tired."

He disappeared back into the kitchen and she heard him shout out, "Emma, I can't find the sugar!"

"It's in the side cabinets."

"Oh." A beat. "Found it. It's empty!"

"That's impossible, I went grocery shopping yesterday," Emma called back.

"Was it an imaginary trip to Whole Foods? Because this sugar bowl is _empty_."

"_No_, it _isn't_."

"Well, come see for yourself!"

"But I'm lazy!" Emma whined. "And settled. And lazy."

"_Emma_."

"Fine. God." Emma swung her legs to the side of the couch and got to her feet, brushing her bangs back impatiently. She practically marched into the kitchen, grumbling, "It takes you like twenty minutes to make a cup of tea and five to make dinner, where is the logic in _that_? Why do we even _need_ tea? I'm _tired_. What are we, stuffy English _aristocrats_? What is _that_ about, Jack?"

Jack was leaning against the sink with his eyebrows raised. He was smirking. "You just about done?"

"Yeah," Emma mumbled.

"You're beautiful when you're pissed off at me."

"Thanks."

Jack grinned. He handed over the sugar bowl. Emma immediately sighed, feeling that it was significantly lighter. "How in the _world_ can this be—" she took off the lid and her breath caught, "—empty." Her eyes widened, confused. Inside the sugar bowl was a ring—a simple and elegant diamond in a gold band—a ring, she would learn minutes later, that had been passed down from Jack's grandparents.

"I'm—Jack—" she looked up, her voice soft. "What is—?"

Jack had moved closer now. "What is this?" he finished her question, smiling. "It's a ring, in a sugar bowl."

"Are you—?" she laughed, then stopped, then laughed again. "_Jack_."

"Here's the deal," Jack murmured, "I've already spent most of my life with you in it. And I think it would unbelievably suck if I didn't spend the _rest_ of it with you, too. I would be broken-hearted. It would just be tragic—I don't know to live without you at this point. And I would never want to."

Emma pressed a hand against her mouth.

There was a pause, and Jack looked up, "Okay, I veered a little off topic, I realize that. But I _love_ you," he laughed, his green eyes warm and sincere. "Marry me?"

In her excitement, Emma almost dropped the sugar bowl. "Fuck!"

"What?"

"I mean yes," she said quickly. She giggled, "Yes!"

Jack grinned and Emma threw her arms around his neck. At their feet, Moxie was barking, excited because of the commotion.

Emma suddenly shoved him back, "You've been faking me out _all day_!"

"I know," he admitted. "It was great watching you get worked up." Emma's eyes smoldered and Jack laughed and kissed her cheek, "I'm sorry. I'm a bit of a shit sometimes."

"No, you're not," she murmured, correcting his collar. "You could never be." Emma was flushed with happiness—she couldn't keep a smile off of her face. "I love you."

"I love you back," Jack murmured, tucking a strand of her hair back. He leaned in and kissed her. He felt her smile against his mouth and pulled back, laughing.

Somehow, the tea was left forgotten. As was the sugar bowl. The ring, however, was a little more fortunate.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you guys for sticking by this story! It's a little bittersweet. I would be lying if I were to say that I'm not a little bummed out that it's over. I love the characters in _Emma_, and I really enjoyed spinning my own modern interpretations of it. I will be taking a break (or hiatus or sabbatical, or _whatchamacall-it_) from writing for awhile. College, part-time job, family, friends, that sort of thing. Real life. _Ew_. :) But I just want to say that your feedback has been truly inspiring and uplifting and it's what makes this silly little thing I do on the side worth it, you know? I love you kids. All the best!


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